


Penumbra

by CrafterOfWords



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Drunken Shenanigans, Existential Crisis, F/M, Fitzcro, Fitzier, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, M/M, Ok people die but some survive, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, The Terror Season 1, Well almost nobody dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-01-20 23:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 84,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21289673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrafterOfWords/pseuds/CrafterOfWords
Summary: Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier and Commander James Fitzjames, of the Royal Navy, have survived their harrowing experience in the frozen wasteland of the Arctic Circle. A safe return to London has been these men's only desire through the very long nights in the arctic, so it is with confusion and discouragement that they find their homecoming has left them wanting. Haunted by the memories and knowledge of horrors beyond the scope of what most men can bear, will they be able to find happiness, despite being given all they thought they'd ever wanted?
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Sophia Cracroft & Captain Francis Crozier
Comments: 271
Kudos: 152





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few thoughts before we dive in.
> 
> First of all, I am basing the characters and events in this story on a bizarre (and sometimes arbitrary) amalgamation of Dan Simmons' novel, The AMC TV Series starring Jared Harris and Tobias Menzies, and the real life people and places from history. In order of importance, I would say MOST details come from the television show (including my vision of what the characters look like and how they speak and act) the novel and historical events would probably be closely tied for second place, with most notable additions of past events from the novel and specific details about individual characters' backgrounds, families, professions, etc., coming from historical documentation. However, this story IS FICTION and nothing in it should be taken as fact.
> 
> I am setting this story in 1848, when Sir James Clark Ross led his expedition in search of HMS Erebus and Terror, on board his vessel, HMS Enterprise. In reality, Ross's expedition became frozen in, much as Franklin had, and he never found his comrades. In the happy fairy land inside my head, however, he arrived and found Crozier and his men just in the nick of time, when Fitzjames was quite ill, but still alive. 
> 
> Mr. Hickey and his followers will not figure into this story, except in memories, nightmares, and flashbacks. Their fate will be left unknown to our main characters, but in my mind they are dead - killed by Tuunbaq, or having turned on one another, or both. 
> 
> Finally, please be aware that this story will be a VERY slow burn. We're talking crockpot level slow. And in all likelihood, there will not be a great deal of smut included. Having said that, there will be various relationships forming and dissolving throughout, so don't get discouraged. This is, above all else, a Fitzier story. I may change my rating from mature to explicit at some point if I feel that a line is crossed, so if you're squeamish about bedroom scenes, be warned.
> 
> Thank-you so much for coming along with me on this journey. I will be working diligently on this story throughout the month of November, (and as long as it takes to complete) and will try to update frequently. In the spirit of NaNoWriMo, I will be posting without excessive amounts of editing, so please bear with me. I thrive on comments, so please leave me your thoughts, feelings, questions, etc. I try my best to answer all comments, but even if I do not, please know that your words mean a tremendous amount to me!
> 
> And now, finally, I hope you enjoy the story! xo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definition of "Penumbra"
> 
> Noun -   
(pen·um·bra) | \ pə-ˈnəm-brə 
> 
> 1: a space of partial illumination (as in an eclipse) between the perfect shadow on all sides and the full light; a fringe region of half shadow resulting from the partial obstruction of light by an opaque object
> 
> 2: a surrounding or adjoining region in which something exists in a lesser degree, a vague, indefinite, or borderline area: Fringe
> 
> 3: something that covers, surrounds, or obscures : SHROUD
> 
> 4: the point or area in which light and shade blend

Prologue

_The pain was exquisite, white hot and searing its way up his leg in blazing torrents. The creature's teeth, large as tent pegs, but somehow sharp as daggers, pierced flesh and muscle. Bone was fractured into splinters as he felt his lower leg break free from his body proper, bright red blood staining the white snow crimson as he flailed helplessly, screaming._

Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier gasped himself awake, springing up in bed and tugging so fiercely on his sheets that his nails dug holes into the thin fabric. His entire body was slicked with sweat, his face as white as the shreds of fabric beneath his fingernails, and his heart pounded deafeningly behind his ribcage. 

Had he screamed aloud? Had anyone heard him? Francis cast his gaze frantically around the cavernous room, landing on the knob of the bedroom door. He prayed to a god, in whom he did not believe, that it would not turn. Graciously, it remained resolutely stationary. If anyone had heard his outcry, they'd had the decency to leave him to battle his demons in private. 

Francis raised one hand to scrape his fingers through his thinning hair, and inhaled deeply, willing his runaway pulse to slow. It had been two weeks since his return to England, but the nightmares had not subsided. Logically, he knew that it would take time for him to re-acclimate to the "civilized" world, but his heart was as weary as his body, and each day brought with it a heaviness of doubt and dread that he could not explain, nor even understand.

Throwing off the bed sheets and blankets, Francis stood to his feet. The bare hardwood floor was cold beneath his toes, and he realized that the fire had burned out; his room was freezing. No wonder he'd dreamed of the arctic. He padded noiselessly across the room and poked at the barely-glowing embers, coaxing a tease of a flame into existence before giving up on the exercise and returning the poker to its cradle on the hearth. A glance at the clock on the mantle told him that the sun would rise within the hour. Just as well, he thought and, knowing he would get no more sleep that night, he pulled on his dressing gown and cap and walked to the balcony windows. 

The moon hung low in the darkened sky, full and swollen like an overinflated football. How many nights had he sat by the window or stood on deck on board Terror, and gazed out at that same moon as it illuminated the vast white emptiness? Yet somehow, back here in London, the moon felt unfamiliar. Everything did, really.

Francis opened the balcony door and stepped outside, leaning on the marble railing. The air was frigid as it whipped through his hair and sent a shiver rippling down his spine. The cold, at least, was familiar. If not a friend, it had at least been Crozier's constant companion for the past several years. He watched his breath crystalize on the night wind before dissipating into nothing - gone, forever. Very much like most of the crews of Terror and Erebus. He didn't like thinking of all the men - and many young boys, as well - who had given their lives on the voyage. He thought now, as he had thought even then, that it had all been such a waste. Yes, Francis Crozier had survived, along with a handful of other men. Yes, they had put the "Nor'west Passage" on their maps. But what did it matter? In the light of so many lives lost, it seemed not to matter in the least.


	2. Chapter 2

######  _ _

_ Part I: James _

Fitzjames lay on the rickety cot inside the medical tent in the middle of the God-forsaken wasteland which he and his men had called home for the past three years. His eyes, when they were cooperative enough to open fully, refused to focus on anything in particular. They shifted listlessly from spot to spot, from the tent flap opening to the ceiling, to the care-worn face of Dr. Goodsir, to the limestone shale-scattered floor, and then to black oblivion once again. 

Pain was the only sensation he registered, as if his entire body was determined to expel the spirit within like a demon being exorcised. Repeatedly, his musculature would contract in an agonizing contortion, followed by a brief reprieve, only to spasm again until unconsciousness mercifully claimed him once more. Between these episodes, during those brief moments of near-clarity, he wondered whether a woman in childbirth might feel thus, helpless against the force of her body's spasms to expel the child within once it had grown too large and demanding for her physical body to sustain.

Captain James Fitzjames had known for some time that his body had fallen prey to that unspeakable disease with which the Royal Navy had become all too well acquainted. The first signs of scurvy in his own body had been bleeding from his hair follicles, but symptoms quickly multiplied and intensified and before long he had suffered lost teeth, staggering joint pain, muscle weakness, and constant fatigue. The old musket wounds from his struggle with the Chinese had reopened, raw and ragged as if he'd just been shot yesterday, and his legs were swollen, his skin mottled with bruising. His entire body ached continuously. In short, James Fitzjames, Captain of Her Majesty's Ship, Erebus, longed for death, to free him from his mortal coil. 

"I think he's coming 'round again." Dr. Goodsir's soft, compassionate voice floated through the haze of consciousness as he gently dabbed at James's forehead with a damp cloth. Fitzjames wasn't sure how long the doctor had been sitting there, nor how long he'd been unconscious, this time, but when his gaze finally stabilized he saw that the doctor was not alone. Captain Crozier was sitting beside him, watching him with more tenderness than Fitzjames could remember ever having seen in those pale eyes. 

"Will you have a drink, then, James?" he asked softly, producing a canteen from somewhere out of Fitzjames's field of vision. 

James opened his mouth to answer, but his voice came out only as a strangled croak. His swollen tongue swept over cracked lips, though as dry as his mouth had become, he didn't think it did any good. Finally, he simply gave a weak nod and strained to lift his head off the pillow. Dr. Goodsir slipped a supporting hand behind his head as Francis lifted the canteen to his lips and poured a thin stream of cool water into his mouth. At least half of the liquid dribbled down the side of his face, and he couldn't quite force the muscles in his throat to work together to swallow, but somehow he managed to get a little of the water down his gullet. 

As dehydrated as he was, James was surprised to feel a hot tear slip from his eye and meander down his cheek.  _ Everything  _ hurt - eat shuddering breath, each thump of his weary heart. He just wanted it to end. Dr. Goodsir wiped the tear from his face and gently lowered his head back onto the pillow. He offered a few quiet words meant to comfort, but James couldn't focus enough to understand them; his attention, such as it was, was centered solely on Francis. 

Seeming to sense this, Crozier leaned closer and pressed a hand over James's, giving it a very gentle squeeze. "Are you comfortable, James?" he asked. "Is there anything I can get you?" 

All he could manage was a tired head wobble. No, he wasn't comfortable - far from it, but he also knew there was nothing anyone could do to help him now, save for bringing him fresh food. Francis' hand was warm and solid on his own, and James could feel the fragile bones in his own hand shifting under the weight of Francis's grasp. He had lost so much weight over the past few weeks that his clothes hung loosely off his boney frame - or at least they had, when he'd been able to stand upright. He wanted to thank Crozier for being there - wanted to beg him not to leave him alone - to please, sit by his bed until it was time for his spirit to depart - surely, it would not be long, now. But he had no strength left to speak, and he felt his eyes rolling back in his skull as darkness overtook him once more.

When he next woke, Fitzjames was vaguely aware of a commotion outside the tent. Crozier was gone, as was Dr. Goodsir; he was all alone. It appeared to be darker than it had been when Francis had visited him, but that meant very little, considering the bizarre ratios of daylight to darkness in this extreme northern latitude, leaving him feeling disoriented most of the time. Judging by the sounds of men, running to and fro outside and making all sorts of noise, James guessed that they were under attack. 

The idea did not cause him to feel fear. If he felt anything at all, it was something closer to relief that the end had come at last. If it was the creature attacking, death would come swiftly. Certainly the beast would not pass up such an easy meal as he would make. If it was a band of Netsilik people, his demise might be slightly more prolonged, but it didn't really matter in the long run. Either way, he was a dead man, and there was nothing that could be done to him, neither by man nor beast, that could cause him greater pain than what he was already enduring with each breath. James Fitzjames closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.

Suddenly, the tent flap flew open and Captain Crozier barged inside, fairly hurling himself toward James's bedside. To his surprise, he realized that it was not fear that animated Francis' features, but something else. Excitement? Joy? His eyes were wild, but not with alarm. It was more like a celebratory mania that lit up his face.

James's brows knit together, forming a deep crease on his forehead as his large brown eyes, now tinged red from burst capillaries, searched his friend's face for the answer to this latest riddle. It took a moment for the Irishman to regain his composure enough to speak. 

"James," he panted. "James… we're saved! The rescue party! They're here. They've come! James, we're saved. We're going  _ home _ !" 

Fitzjames could barely wrap his mind around the words. _ Saved _ ?  _ Rescue party _ ?  ** _Home? _ ** It was so far removed from what he'd accepted just moments ago that his conscious mind refused to comprehend it. After a few long moments, though, his expression softened and his lips, dry and cracked as they were, stretched into a smile to match the one Francis wore. This time when the darkness took him, it was with a heart light with hope - something he had not felt for many months - that he drifted off to sleep.

***

The next few days passed largely as a blur for Fitzjames, in which he did little more than sleep. But that sleep was sound and beautiful. He had spent so much of his time in varying states of delirium lately that it seemed almost obscene for him to be sleeping so much, now that he was beginning to feel better. But as his mental faculties returned, bringing clarity of thought, Fitzjames realized that, even in his state of near unconsciousness, his sleep had not been truly restful. The pain and muscle spasms had interrupted any rest he might have had, and so he devoured this delicious, peaceful slumber with as much enthusiasm as was possible, and each time he woke, he felt a little stronger. 

There was at least one surgeon among the new arrivals, and he took it in turns with Dr. Goodsir to care for the ill captain. James felt like an infant, being spoon-fed hot broth and given fresh-squeezed fruit juice to drink. However, by the third day, he was able to sit up in bed on his own, eating solid food and wielding his own fork and knife. He'd just been sharing one of his most amusing stories (in his own estimation) with the new surgeon, when the tent flap opened and Captain Crozier entered. 

Francis came to a halt just inside the tent, his eyes wide in surprise, presumably at seeing James alert and sitting up. His shrewd visage took in the scene, gaze dancing from spot to spot as if afraid to come to rest on the man, himself. James mused that he couldn't remember ever seeing his fellow captain looking so out of his element, but he was at a loss as to the reason Francis would be feeling so awkward now. 

"Francis! What's the good word?" Fitzjames said cheerfully, by way of greeting. He offered a broad smile and gestured to the chair beside his cot. "Won't you sit? I was just finishing my meal, which was scrumptious. I say, Francis, it's been a  _ very _ long time since we've had fresh meat. Isn't it wonderful?" 

The surgeon, suddenly feeling conspicuously unwelcome, collected James's utensils and took his leave, giving Francis enough time to collect himself and approach the bedside. 

"It's good to see up and eating, James," he said, standing behind the chair with his hands leaning on its back. Fitzjames wished he would just sit down, rather than hovering like he might make a mad dash out of the tent at any moment, but he didn't press the matter. He was just happy to see his friend. 

"The doctor tells me I'll be walking across Asia again in a matter of weeks," he said with a glint in his eye, and this comment managed to pull a grin from Crozier. "What are our plans?" he asked, his voice turning more serious. He was well aware that his illness had been the primary reason for the delay in their departure, and he was eager to get underway, now that his symptoms were subsiding and his strength was returning. 

Crozier rounded the chair and sat, leaning forward slightly. "We've been sending parties to haul supplies to the ship. It's slow going over the rock, but there's been no sign of the creature, and no more men have been lost. Those who had been showing signs of the scurvy have made full recoveries. As soon as you're strong enough to travel, we'll be off." 

James felt an odd mixture of relief and regret at these last words. "I can travel  _ now _ , Francis." He held out his hands as if to display his ability to once more use his muscles. "I'm strong enough. These men deserve to be on their way home, not milling around waiting on me." 

Francis smiled warmly and nodded, but held up his hands in appeasement. "That will be for Dr. Goodsir and Dr. Leavy to decide," Crozier said. "But take heart, James. The men are in good spirits. They've kept busy packing up what supplies we have left, and many have taken part in the hauling parties. Even if you'd been strong as an ox, these things needed tending to before we could leave." His voice softened as he said, "don't you fret over it, James. We've been out on this God-forsaken ice for three years. Another couple of days surely won't do us any harm."

Fitzjames remembered all too well how the creature had come in the past, seemingly out of nowhere, and he wondered whether a couple more days really wouldn't do them harm, but he did not say so. Crozier knew, just as well as he did, what they were up against and, as much as he hated to admit it, Fitzjames knew that Crozier was right. If he attempted to make the journey before he was fully healed, he would only end up holding the men back for longer.

"Promise me you will not postpone our departure a moment longer than is absolutely necessary, Francis," he said, fixing Crozier with a baleful and earnest look. 

Francis nodded solemnly. "I promise you, James. The moment we are able, we will pull up stakes and be gone."

***

_ Part II - Francis _

Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier was not a man given to flights of fancy. He was, above all, a realist, and prided himself on this fact. Any foolish notions of optimism had been irrevocably driven from him - or so he thought - with the second refusal of Miss Sophia Cracoft. Yet in that moment, as he left the medical tent, he was nearly overcome with feelings of relief that could only be labeled as giddy jubilation. 

Crozier had barely dared to hope that Fitzjames would recover, and had in fact made his peace with the loss several days ago. But having seen this seemingly miraculous improvement unfold before his own eyes, even Francis could not help but throw back his head and laugh in the face of whatever demon had stalked them in their travels to this point.

Immediately he sought out Dr. Goodsir, Mister Bridgens, and the other surgeons to confer with them regarding Fitzjames' medical status. He understood well James's eagerness to be on their way, and though he had reassured his fellow captain that they were still busy hauling supplies, in truth, the last of the remaining provisions had been delivered to HMS Enterprise the previous day, leaving only their dwellings, immediately accessible supplies, and the men themselves to transport.

The medical men all agreed that Captain Fitzjames had made a remarkable recovery, and ultimately reached the conclusion that he would be fit enough to travel, on the condition that he ride in the sledge with the supplies for most of the journey. In the end, it was decided that they would leave camp at first light the following morning.

There was much to be done on that final evening, and it was very late when Francis Crozier finally flopped down on his cot that night. As exhausted as he was, he couldn't help but smile as he remembered giving James the news that they would be setting out in the morning. Fitzjames' dark eyes had nearly danced with joy, and he'd leaned forward, clasping Francis' hands heartily. For possibly the first time in the man's life, he'd been too overcome with emotion for words. 

Now, Francis shook his head as he grinned at the tent ceiling, marveling at how entirely his sentiments regarding Fitzjames had changed in their exile. They had gone from antagonistic rivals, of sorts, to uneasy comrades, and now the very closest of confidantes.  _ Friends _ . This place - this vast emptiness - had a way of laying bare a man's soul, he realized. It was impossible to hide from anyone in such a wasteland - even one's self.

Over the past few days, Crozier had spent hours at James's bedside while he slept. It seemed unnatural for the man to be silent for such long stretches of time, but Francis had been cheered by the peacefulness of his slumber. There had been times when Francis had taken the opportunity to regale James with a few stories of his own, about growing up in Ireland, one of thirteen children, and about his early days volunteering with the Royal Navy. He even recounted the story of the Parry's boat-hauling reindeer, chuckling to himself at the memory. Somewhere along the line, Crozier realized that he was telling these stories for his own benefit, more than for James's. For his part, James made no sound, apart from softly snoring from time to time. 

Francis recalled his surprise earlier that very day, when he'd walked into the tent to find Fitzjames sitting up and feeding himself. He'd been forced to temporarily give up his visits to James's tent the day before in favor of overseeing the supply packing and hauling, so the dramatic improvement in his friend had come as a great surprise to Crozier. He'd felt almost lightheaded with relief at the sight, and it had taken him several moments to collect his wits enough to speak intelligibly. In that moment, he thought he could have run over and kissed Fitzjames, so happy had he been. But of course he'd done no such thing. Such a silly, thought, he mused, thankful that he hadn't shamed himself by doing anything so ridiculous. 

Pulling in a deep breath, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier turned onto his side and, pulling the blankets snugly up around his shoulders, closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	3. The Homeward Voyage

######  _ Part I - Francis _

The journey from King William Island back to England passed in a haze for Francis Crozier. It was a novel experience to be a passenger on a ship in Her Majesty's Royal Navy, without being a part of the crew, much less a commanding officer. Thus, relieved of any responsibilities on the ship, Francis spent most of his time in his cabin, asleep. In fact, he slept through several meals, though on such occasions he would always awaken to find a tray of victuals by his bedside, doubtless brought to him by the longsuffering Jopson, now a Lieutenant. Promoting his former steward to a wardroom officer had been one of the actions for which Francis was most proud. If any man deserved the honor, it was most certainly Thomas Jopson. But, old habits die hard, as Crozier knew very well, and he was grateful for this small kindness.

When Francis did make it to formal meals, he was quiet, focusing on the food on his plate, rather than the jaunty banter happening all around him. Sometimes other officers from Terror and Erebus joined the meal, sometimes not. There was always a place set for Captain Fitzjames, but it always remained unoccupied. This was not a great surprise to Francis, considering how ill and weak James had been. The surprise, instead, lay in the effect upon himself which James's absence caused. It felt like an absolute eternity ago that Crozier had complained to Jopson about the long-winded tall tales Fitzjames used to tell. Yet now, he found that there was nothing for which he wished more fervently than to hear James regale him again with the story of policing the colossal guano deposit off the coast of Namibia, or his foot-trek across Asia. Even the story of being shot by the Chinese would be welcome. The plain truth was that he missed Fitzjames. Missed him terribly.

Sometimes, after such meals that were achingly lacking Fitzjames' presence, Francis would quietly make his way to his cabin. He would stand outside the door with hand raised to knock, straining to hear any sound from within to indicate whether his fellow commander was awake, or even alive, but the only discernible sound was the creaking of the boards overhead as the crew performed their duties. Somehow, Francis never could muster the strength to lower his knuckles to wood and knock. He convinced himself that it was only because James needed his rest. Perhaps this was true. Perhaps there was some deeper reason, which he didn't have the heart to face.

For his part, Francis hadn't realized just how bone tired and weak he had been until he'd been given the chance to replenish his depleted stores of sound sleep and nutritious food. Each day he found that he felt stronger and more optimistic for the future. And why shouldn't he feel hopeful? After all, they had found the passage, thanks in very large part to Mister Blanky, and would be received as heroes back in England. Best of all, they had been saved! The waking nightmare had ended. Or so he supposed, at the time

***

On the morning of the day they were to arrive at port, Crozier woke early. The latest reports from the previous day had estimated their arrival in Greenhithe, Kent by late afternoon, but Francis had been unable to remain in bed past five o’clock. At that time, then, he had risen, bathed, and taken the opportunity to jot down some thoughts in his diary before dressing. 

Francis Crozier’s stomach was filled with butterflies at the thought of seeing the lovely Sophia Cracroft again. It was true that she had declined his proposal of marriage before his departure to the Arctic. In fact, she had denied him not once, but twice. 

But now he was returning, and things would be different. He would surely be knighted for serving his role in the discovery of the Nor’west Passage, which would lift him out of the societal gutter from which he’d spent his life trying, in vain, to climb. Who knew what might happen with a knighthood to his name, and the fame and riches which would inevitably accompany it? His newfound, and continued sobriety would also weigh heavily in his favor. He was a new man - a brand new Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, reborn out of the middle class and now baptized into the nobility. Yes,  _ anything  _ might be possible now!

Francis stood in front of his mirror in full parade uniform, straightening his cravat and securing his epaulets. He drew in a deep breath, puffing out his chest, but was disheartened by the way the fabric seemed to hang limp from his shoulders. How much weight had he lost, out there on the ice? Not as much as James had, surely, but still enough to be noticeable. He considered putting on another layer or two underneath, just to fill out his uniform, but opted against this since the temperate Western European weather now felt sweltering to him. It would take some time to re-acclimate to a warmer climate after having spent years in sub-zero conditions. He dragged a comb through his thinning hair one last time and sighed resignedly. It would have to do. 

Stepping foot on deck, Francis was instantly buoyed by the infectious excitement of the men at their posts and bustling about. It was as if their spirits were collectively lifted in direct proportion to their proximity to England, and Francis couldn't help but smile as the warm breeze swept over him, rippling through the tassels on his uniform. 

He could smell the familiar scent of  _ home _ , if such a thing was possible. He breathed it in deeply, letting the wholesome British sea air fill his lungs, permeating him in both body and soul as he braced himself against the handrail and leaned over the edge. He closed his eyes and felt as though he were flying, completely free.

"Francis?"

Crozier startled so badly that, for one horrifying moment, he thought he would topple over the edge and plummet into the sea below. Mercifully, he regained his footing and spun, his heart hammering like a timpani in his chest. Before he even had time to turn, though, he knew what - or rather  _ who _ \- he would see. He would have recognized that voice anywhere, and the sound of it sent blood rushing to his eager ears like a symphony he'd been waiting his whole life to hear performed. 

"James." Francis broke into a broad smile as he took in the sight of his friend. Before he could think about what he was doing, Crozier had stepped forward and thrown his arms around the other man, enveloping him in a tight hug. Moments later though, remembering the rules of decorum, he pulled back and dropped his hands awkwardly to his sides, glancing around them, his cheeks a rosy hue on his fair skin. 

"It's good to see you looking so well, James," he said when he'd finally found his voice, and the courage to look the other man in the face.

Fitzjames was smiling, though Crozier wasn't entirely sure why. "It's good to be  _ seen _ ,” he said in his rich baritone voice. "And to be  _ feeling _ so well again. I'm sorry I've been scarce of late." 

Francis nodded, waiting for him to elaborate, but James offered no further explanation, instead turning his attention out over the water. "We're almost home, Francis," he said wistfully. "Can you believe it? I must confess, there were moments that I had my doubts we'd ever see the British coast again, yet here we are." 

"Here we are," Francis repeated, turning to follow Fitzjames' gaze out over the North Atlantic Ocean. The faintest outline of land could be seen on the horizon. The British Isles.  _ Home. _

And yet, the image that had taken root in Crozier’s mind, even as he gazed out to the horizon, was not of their destination, but that of James Fitzjames, standing straight and tall beside him, his skin having reclaimed its usual ruddy shade, his hair gently tousled by the ocean breeze, looking to the horizon.

A random thought fluttered through Crozier’s mind - the memory of someone claiming that James Fitzjames was “the handsomest man in the Royal Navy.” Or had it been Sir James Ross they’d been referring to? He couldn’t be sure. And anyway, what did it matter? At the time, the comment had rankled, but now… 

"Well, there you are, old man!” As if on cue, another familiar voice broke Crozier's train of thought. He turned with a laugh to face Sir James Clark Ross - not only one of his oldest and dearest friends, but now his savior as well. He had an arm outstretched, and Francis clasped his offered hand, moving to give him a hearty slap on the back in that awkward half-hug with which men so often greeted one another. Despite having been on the same ship, the two of them had not had much opportunity to chat, so it felt like a reunion of its own, coming face to face now. 

"We'll be home by tea time," he said cheerfully, glancing between the two captains. "You'll be taking your evening meal on solid British soil, gentlemen."

"Hear, hear!" Fitzames said, ever the enthusiast. “There will be feasting and merrymaking tonight!”

"Indeed," said Ross. “I’ve been looking forward to receiving a warm welcome from my beautiful Ann. She was not well pleased when I announced my intention to lead this expedition, but I know she will concede the worthiness of my quest when she sees you both alive and well." He turned to Francis and added, "No doubt the lovely Miss Sophia will be eagerly awaiting your return, as well.” With a good-natured elbow to Crozier’s ribs he added, “I told her she was much too good for a broken down old man like you, but it seemed to me that she strongly disagreed." 

Crozier felt his throat constrict and his cheeks darken. He cast a sidelong glance at Fitzjames, who had turned his head and seemed to be nibbling at the inside of his cheek. Feeling Francis' gaze on him, he turned back to him and smiled, though that smile upon his lips did not reach his eyes.

Sir James Ross leaned in conspiratorially and said, "She's come to call on Ann several times during your absence, and… let it suffice to say that your time away has played in your favor, Francis." There was a mischievous sparkle in his eye that Crozier recognized well. 

He was at a loss for words, his cheeks having now reached a dark red hue. He shifted from foot to foot and chuckled nervously, glancing down at the deck planks, and when he looked up again, Fitzjames was no longer standing beside him. 

"He shoved off in an awful hurry," Ross said with notable concern in his voice and expression. "I hope he's not feeling ill again."

"As do I," said Francis, oddly unsettled by James’s abrupt departure. He considered going after his friend, to make sure he wasn't feeling sick or faint, but in the end decided to give James his privacy. After all, it was the first time he'd seen Fitzjames out of his cabin since they’d boarded HMS Enterprise. Perhaps he'd simply been on his feet for too long at once. 

Still… Francis couldn’t help feeling a little off-balance without Fitzjames by his side


	4. The Homeward Voyage: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This "chapter" is actually the second part of the previous chapter. Once the whole story is published, I may go back and consolidate chapters in a more orderly fashion, but since I'm trying to post as I go, I will simply disclaimer myself this way.  
And now, thank-you for reading, and please enjoy!

_ Part II - James _

James Fitzjames stayed in his cabin for the remainder of the journey, which time he spent packing his personal items. He took special care in handling the few "souvenirs" he'd managed to retrieve from his time on HMS Erebus: A moleskin journal, filled with his own poetry and sketches, his pen and ink pot, a small pouch of tobacco, and one place setting of his family crest-engraved silverware, along with a single china tea cup and a few other odds and ends. These items he carefully wrapped and nestled snugly between his uniforms, where they would be safely cocooned against rough handling. 

Before closing the trunk, James lifted a small scrap of fabric and brought it to his face. He closed his eyes and swept the diaphanous material over his cheek. It was a small scrap of the dress he'd found in Sir John Franklin's chest of masquerade costumes. This charred swatch was all that was left of the beautiful gown he'd held to his chest so long ago - the night he'd first discovered the blood weeping from his hair follicles.

It still smelled of smoke. 

Gingerly, James placed the fabric on top of his other belongings, then closed and latched the trunk. 

***

The arrival of HMS Enterprise at the port of Greenhithe was celebrated with pomp and parade. Throngs of people were gathered at the docks, from Kent and the surrounding areas, many having traveled from London to welcome home the returning heroes from the arctic. 

The atmosphere was one of festive merriment - women dressed in their finest gowns and the men in their dark trousers and coat tails. Children wove in and out of the crowd, chasing one another with laughter and shrieks of delight. The rich, smoky aroma of roasted chestnuts and the heady spices of hot mulled wine floated on the breeze, mingling with the briny sea air. 

Cheers swelled upward, out of the crowd to fill the air as the gangplanks were lowered. Meanwhile, James Fitzjames struggled to calm his racing heart. He had always been a man who had adored the spotlight. Never in his entire life had he shied away from the attentions of others. Yet now, with a veritable sea of human forms and faces all staring at him and the other men with rapt attention, James Fitzjames felt physically ill. Perhaps it was some lingering effect of the scurvy; this was the only explanation he could conjure for such a reaction. Surely a man's character could not be changed so severely, even by tragedy such as they had endured. Whatever the cause of his mounting anxiety, James drew in a deep breath, thrust out his chest and raised his head triumphantly, waving to the crowd as he stood at the railing.

James had not seen Crozier since their brief meeting earlier that day, on deck. For that matter, up until a few moments ago, he hadn't seen anyone apart from the inked images in his own sketchbook, staring back at him. But when he emerged from his bunk as they neared port, he had looked for Francis. 

For one thing, he wanted to apologize for having left so suddenly before - to explain that he'd suddenly been overcome with a wave of nausea, and needed to find the nearest privvy. But amid the chaotic bustle on board the ship, he hadn't been able to locate his friend and fellow commander anywhere. It felt somehow _ wrong _ to set foot on English soil without Francis by his side. They had gone through so much together out on the ice, and had spent many evenings talking about their plans for the future, when they would return home. At the time, neither man had truly believed those dreams would ever transpire. Yet here they were, now, given a new lease on life. 

Of course, James and Francis had spent plenty _ more _ evenings bickering and arguing about this and that, picking at each other until they began to unravel. But through it all, Francis Crozier had been the one constant. If nothing else, James could count on Francis to be grumpy and self-absorbed. But as time went on, James knew that these things were only the tip of the ice berg with Crozier was concerned. There was much more beneath the surface. And, especially after his self-imposed detoxification, Francis had become the closest friend James Fitzjames had ever known - the _ only _ one who knew about his true heritage. 

And so, it was with a heavy heart which James realized that, just because they had been in such close contact in the arctic did not necessarily mean they would continue to do so on land. After all, they each had their own social circles before embarking on their great expedition. It would be expected of them to return to those circles, naturally. Oh, they would bump into each other from time to time, certainly. That could hardly be avoided, given what was in store for them both with the Admiralty. But in their private lives… Well, that was a different story, wasn't it?

As the men began to funnel down the ramp, James held back, declining Sir James Clark Ross's urging to disembark ahead of the crew. He'd waited this long, and a few more minutes wouldn't hurt him. Besides, he still held onto the hope that he could locate Francis, and they could de-board the ship together. 

As it happened, James _ did _ spot Francis, a few minutes later, but he was no longer on board the Enterprise. James felt his mouth go dry as he watched Francis shuffle down the gangplank and fall into the arms of a beautiful young lady. It could only have been Miss Sophia Cracroft. 

Ah, yes, James Fitzjames had heard many, _ many _ things about the infamous Miss Sophia Cracroft. Francis had always been shy of speaking about her in detail, but he'd heard many rambling stories from Sir John Franklin about his niece, usually comprised mainly of the fears and worries of a fretful parent - or, in this case, uncle. Sophia was not a conventional "good" Victorian lady. She was given to flights of whimsy, brazen acts of daring and defiance, and generally behaving in a way unbecoming of a lady. Sir John had, of course, relayed the account of Francis's proposals, as well as his own mixed feelings of regret over the way things had transpired. Few men had known Sir John as well as James had, and he had always been a willing and eager confidante for the older man, whom he'd looked up to as a father figure and role model.

Sir John had not been the only source of information about Miss Cracroft, however. He had also heard rumors from some of the men. Apparently Sophia Cracroft had formed a reputation as a bit of a high flyer, or even a "tart." More than once, he had heard that Sophia Cracroft had repeatedly thrown herself at Sir James Clark Ross, despite his engagement and successive marriage. Such stories never failed to perplex Fitzjames as to what it was that Francis Crozier saw in her. A beautiful woman, no doubt. She was lovely, with her flaxen ringlets falling gracefully over her slender shoulders, her shapely body, now pressed tightly against Francis's as she clung to him, apparently weeping tears of joy.

James once again felt sick to his stomach. Why? Why should he begrudge his friend this simple joy - the delight of a beautiful woman's embrace? Lord knew Francis Crozier had faced far too many demons to be denied any reward in this world or the next, so why did this sight make Fitzjames recoil so, wanting to lean over the ship's railing and empty the contents of his stomach? It felt remarkably like jealousy, but that was ridiculous. Why on Earth should James feel jealous of Sophia Cracroft? 

Francis deserved better. That _had_ to be the issue. Sophia Cracroft, with her condescending family and her questionable reputation, was simply not good enough for Francis Crozier. James decided to have a talk with Francis about this later. For now, though, he had to focus his attention elsewhere.

"Captain Fitzjames, it's time to go." James turned to see the familiar, care-worn face of Dr. Goodsir. His hair, which hung in tight dark curls as it had grown longer, now blew haphazardly in the breeze. The man, who James had found irritatingly soft at the start of their expedition, had turned out to be one of the strongest of them all, and was now like a balm of Gilead on James's blistered soul. He smiled and nodded. 

"Very good, Doctor," he said in what he hoped was a cheerful tone. "Shall we?"

Together, Captain James Fitzjames and Doctor Harry D S Goodsir walked down the plank and onto the dock, and were immediately engulfed by the adoring crowd. But even as he was given hearty pats on the back, fierce hugs, and high congratulations, all that Captain James Fitzjames wanted was a heavy blanket, a warm fire, a simple cup of tea, and a quiet conversation with Francis Crozier.


	5. Chapter 3: Home At Last

######  _ Part I - Francis _

Francis had been very nearly swept off his feet by Sophia Cracroft the moment he'd set foot on solid ground. He hadn't minded in the least, of course, and happily fell into her open arms, reveling in the warmth of her body and the nearly-forgotten scent of her lightly perfumed skin. It felt very much like a dream or hallucination, and there was a large part of Francis which refused to allow itself to believe that this was, in fact, reality. 

When the embrace was broken, he looked into her lovely face and found tears shimmering in her eyes and her lips quivering through her smile. It was all too much to take, and before he could stop himself, Francis had cradled her face between his rough palms and was kissing her, long and full on her lips, not drawing back until he felt the tremor behind them still. 

"You're even more beautiful than in my memory, Sophia," he whispered afterward, leaning his forehead against hers. 

"Oh, Francis," she said, her voice hoarse through both laughter and tears. 

Before either of them could say or do anything more, someone was tugging at Crozier's sleeve, pulling him deeper into the crowd amidst cheers and shouts. He grinned at Sophia and mouthed, "I'll call on you. Soon," before losing sight of her. 

It was an incredible feeling, being passed around the crowd like a trophy, people shouting his name and cheering for him. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, and just then he allowed himself to simply bask in the warmth of this public adoration. 

"_A man like me will do amazing things to be seen," _he remembered Fitzjames telling him. In that moment, he understood what James had meant. This feeling was intoxicating - better than the finest Irish whiskey. It was no wonder Fitzjames had fallen victim to its siren's song. 

_ James… _

Francis glanced over his shoulder at HMS Enterprise as it grew smaller in the distance. He should have waited for James to disembark, but he'd been caught up in the excitement of the moment and, having seen Sophia waiting for him, he'd completely (albeit momentarily) forgotten about James. Now, though, he desperately wished he'd waited. He thought he caught just the briefest glimpse of Fitzjames, along with Dr. Goodsir, lifted into the air on the shoulders of some of the men closest to the dock, their arms lifted in a victorious pose. 

"James!" he called back, but he knew it was useless to shout. He was too far off now, and his voice didn't carry in a crowd anyway. Not like Fitzjames's voice did. But he looked happy, drinking in the love of the people, just as Francis had been doing moments before. He would catch up with James later on. And anyway, he was certain that _ he _ would be the _ furthest _thing from Fitzjames's mind in that moment. Surely he wouldn't be missed, when James was surrounded by admirers of his own.

***

After nearly an hour of celebration, Francis Crozier was well and fully ready to retreat to the privacy of his cabin, or just about any enclosed space where he could be alone with his thoughts and a cup of tea. His head was throbbing, and he felt exhausted in both body and spirit. Despite his best efforts, Francis had not managed to reconnect with Sophia, nor had he located Fitzjames again after that one distant glimpse. 

General weariness gave way to edginess, and finally agitation, until Crozier was quite certain that the next person to shove, grab, grope, or even speak loudly to him would suffer his full wrath. A hand settled on his shoulder and Francis spun with fire in his gaze, but he softened immediately upon seeing who it was. Sir James Clark Ross stood before him, smiling broadly. He did not appear any the worse for wear, but then, James Ross was a much younger man that Crozier was, and at any given age, Sir James was a more sanguine personality, compared to Francis' generally melancholic nature.

"Thank God Almighty it's you," Francis breathed out, feeling the tension begin to drain from his shoulders. "James, I need to get out of here before I punch somebody in the face." 

Sir James laughed, slinging an arm around Francis's shoulders. "I understand," he said. "See here, Francis, do you have some place lined up to stay in town? You'd be heartily welcome at my home, you know, until you can get your feet under you again. Besides, you'll be summoned to present an account of your findings on the expedition to Admiralty any day, so you'd might as well stay close." 

"I would hate to impose," Francis said seriously. In truth, he hadn't given much thought to where he would stay, having assumed he would hole up in some inn near the port. He'd had a vague idea that he wanted to be close to Sophia, though he would never have presumed to ask to _ stay _with her and Lady Jane.

"Nonsense, old man," Sir James retorted with a laugh. "I'll hear none of that. It will be no imposition whatsoever. Come, stay with Ann and me for the night. If you still wish to find other lodgings in the morning, you are under no obligation to stay."

"Well… I suppose…" 

"Splendid! Then let's be off. Just between us, Francis, I'm as eager to get away from this rabble as you are. Come on, then." And, with a hand still on his shoulder, Sir James Clark Ross led Francis out of the crowd to his waiting carriage.

The carriage ride back to Sir James Clark's home was mostly quiet. Francis had never been blessed with the gift of casually making small talk, and he was certainly in no mood to attempt it today. Already, the high of the celebration was wavering, leaving Francis with a heaviness in his heart and an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. 

More and more, he wished he'd taken greater care to wait for Fitzjames. It was a ridiculous sentiment, he knew. James Fitzjames was a grown man, fully capable of looking after himself. He certainly didn't need Francis chasing after him like some harried nursemaid. And yet, Crozier found that he couldn't quite expel the man from his thoughts. Bizarrely, he found himself wishing that it was James in the carriage with him, telling one of his long-winded stories. Francis would roll his eyes and make half-hearted jabs at James's self-grandiosity, and James would respond by beginning yet another tale from his younger days on the Euphrates, or in China, or wherever-the-hell the whim took him. 

Francis cast a tentative glance across at James Ross and his bride. He still thought of them as newlyweds, although he realized with a pang of mild alarm that, during his absence in the Arctic, three entire years had passed. Or had it been four? He couldn't keep track any longer, but whether it had been three or four years, or longer, James and Ann were not exactly newlyweds anymore. He felt that he ought to make conversation, but for the life of him, he could not think of a single thing to ask the pair of them, so he turned his gaze back out the window.

It was Ann who broke the silence, clearing her throat daintily before speaking. "Captain Crozier, will you be calling on Miss Sophia Cracroft while you are in town?" she asked. Francis was fairly sure she'd been sitting on this question for some time and had only now mustered the courage to ask it. He gave her a polite smile and nodded.

"Indeed, I shall. In fact, I saw Sophia this afternoon, and told her I would call upon her soon. I had thought to pay her a visit later this evening, if possible. However, I don't wish to place any further imposition on you and Sir James. I wouldn't dream of asking you to—"

"Nonsense!" Ann interjected, having obviously anticipated this response and been ready with a rejoinder of her own. "You _ must _ call on her. Is that not so, James?" She directed this last to her husband, who gave a shrug of his shoulders and looked questioningly to Francis with a sheepish grin on his lips.

"My dear, he's only just arrived. We don't want him to think we intend to send him away already."

"Of course not, James, but… Well… Sophia has been yearning to see him, and I only thought… If Francis wanted to use the barouche tonight… Well, we would be remiss to deny him the opportunity."

Sir James gave his wife a good-natured nudge and smile, then turned back to Francis with that mischievous grin of his. "Well, what about it, old man? You've had it from the prime authority in my household. Our carriage is at your behest."

Francis laughed, feeling his cheeks darken slightly at the talk of Sophia. He remembered Sir James mentioning just that day that Sophia and Ann had become friends, but he'd been unprepared nonetheless. "I would be most grateful," he finally said, nodding to both of them. "Though I ought to send her word before I simply appear on her doorstep." 

"That can be easily arranged," said James. "I'll have a man bring her a message at once, after we've arrived. And, here we are, now!" 

Francis sat back and watched as his old friend was greeted cheerfully by his serving staff. He descended the carriage first and then turned to offer his hand to his bride, helping her from the carriage. Francis emerged last, feeling his legs shift beneath him. He still wasn't used to being on solid ground. He turned to retrieve his trunk from the carriage, but found that one of Sir James's house staff had retrieved it and was already carrying it into the house, along with Sir James's own luggage. Following his host demurely, Francis made his way into the house.

***

######  _ Part II - James _

James Fitzjames, pride of the Royal Navy, felt… Well, he wasn't sure exactly _ how _ he felt. When he'd first set foot on land, his spirits had been instantly buoyed by the warm, familiar glow of the limelight. He'd delighted in the cheers of the crowd and the infectious, victorious British spirit. But after the crowds had dispersed and most of his crewmates had gone to their individual homes, he felt almost homesick for the ice. This thought was alarming when it first occurred to him. Had he really been so altered by his time in the Arctic that he no longer felt at home in the spotlight?

He'd tried, for a while, to find Crozier in the crowd, but it was nearly impossible to see beyond the bodies immediately surrounding him, and after a while he'd given up. Why had he fled to his cabin on board Enterprise earlier that afternoon? It had been impetuous and foolish - dare he say cowardly? He still didn't understand his own actions. If he had simply stayed on deck with the other officers, the afternoon would have gone quite differently, indeed. 

"Do you have a place to stay, James?" 

He turned, startled from his thoughts, and saw Thomas Blanky standing there, leaning on a makeshift crutch to take the pressure off his one good leg. He looked around for any sign of family, vaguely recalling a passing remark about Mr. Blanky having a wife and children "back home." He marveled at the fact that it had never even occurred to him to ask the man, himself, about his family, in all the time they'd spent out on the ice. 

"I uh… I'll be going to my parents' home in Abbots Langley," he said somewhat absently, glancing around them at the thinning crowd and the darkening sky. He suddenly had a sense of deja-vu, a flash of memory from the night of carnivale washing over him and sending a chill rippling down his spine.

"That's a fair trek," Thomas said, one brow arching in that knowing way he had. "I've got rooms reserved at the inn just yonder." He nodded in the direction of the town. "'Tisn't much, but I dare say I can find a place for you to rest your head for a night. You can set off in the morning if ye like. I'll be headed back to Yorkshire once I've seen a surgeon." He glanced down at his prosthetic leg with a little shrug that inferred he'd had about enough of surgeons, but would never hear the end of it if he didn't go and get checked over. 

James felt a little off-balanced by the invitation. He'd been planning to find rooms of his own at one of the inns in town, but now that the time had come to look for accommodations, he found that he was completely exhausted. If Thomas Blanky had already reserved rooms somewhere, it would save him the trouble of going from establishment to establishment in search of a vacancy.

"I'd be much obliged," James finally conceded. 

Mr. Blanky nodded. "Well, then, we'd best be off. I don't know about you, but I could do with a full belly and a mug of ale before bed." 

"I'll second that," James said automatically, smiling. 

Mr. Blanky had a way of putting Fitzjames both at ease and on the alert, all at once. A whaler by trade, Mr. Blanky had a down to earth quality that he found refreshing, but there was something in his shrewd worldly wisdom that James found unnerving. He recalled the night in Erebus's wardroom, when Mr. Blanky had recounted the tale of his previous expedition to the Arctic with Sir John Ross, and the darkness that had infected the men. The story'd had the effect on Fitzjames of a fireside ghost story, setting him on edge for the rest of the night. As if any extra paranoia had been necessary in that place, where demons lurked in every frozen shadow.

As they made their way into town, they passed the time with light conversation, reminiscing about the last time they'd been in Greenhithe, before the expedition had set off, and those first days at sea, before they'd been iced in and everything had fallen apart.

The inn was close - the first one they saw on their way into town from the docks. The men and women at the bar downstairs did not seem like the sort that Fitzjames was accustomed to rubbing shoulders with - dock workers and fishermen, most likely. But he refrained from making any comment to that effect, being aware that these might be the very sorts of people Mr. Blanky was used to spending his time with. 

After a few brief words with the innkeeper, the two of them made their way upstairs to the small apartment where they would be staying. 

"Only one bed, I'm afraid," Mr. Blanky said, standing in the doorway and surveying the accommodations. "I can sleep on the settee if you like." 

"Nonsense," James said. Yes, he'd only just recovered his own health, but he had a suspicion that Mr. Blanky wasn't feeling quite as hale and hearty as he let on. He'd noticed the increasing limp in Thomas' gait recently, and was fairly sure the leg was giving him pain. "I'll take the settee. You take the bedroom."

Mr. Blanky shrugged, but didn't argue, which was proof enough to Fitzjames that he'd read the signs correctly. He walked into the sitting area and shrugged the canvas satchel off his shoulder and onto the floor. "Where's your luggage?" he asked James.

"I left it at the docks. I'll have to send a man down for it. It's only one trunk." 

Thomas nodded. "Well, I think I'll just splash some cool water on my face, and then we can go down and get some food. No doubt the innkeep will have a boy who'll get your trunk for a few pence."

"Right. I'll just go and see," James said, realizing for the first time that he was starving. "I'll get us a table downstairs."

***

Thirty minutes later, with his trunk safely installed in their rooms, James Fitzjames was seated in a private booth across from Thomas Blanky. Each man had a tankard of ale and a bowl of the most delicious fish stew James could ever remember tasting. A platter of crusty bread and cheese sat between them, and a fire blazed in the hearth nearby. 

With one pint down and another in process, and the fire warming his feet and hands, James felt himself begin to relax. Every time the door opened, however, his head spun to see who was entering. He wasn't sure why, beyond the very faint hope that Francis might walk through the door. And why would he? Surely Crozier was tucked up cozily somewhere with Miss Cracroft or one of his other friends. This thought soured his countenance to a ridiculous degree, prompting concern from his companion.

"Are you alright, James?" Mr. Blanky asked, leaning forward to pull a hank of bread from the loaf. 

"Fine. Yes, I'm fine," he replied, somewhat unconvincingly.

"You'll receive no condemnation from me, James," Mr. Blanky said with such earnestness that for an absurd moment, Fitzjames felt the urge to cry. "What's on your mind?"

James shook his head and took a long pull from his drink. "Just tired, I think," he said, placing the mug back on the table. 

Thomas Blanky fixed him with a look that made James think he could see straight through his skin and into his very soul. He shifted awkwardly in his seat and cleared his throat, waiting for the interrogation to come, but the next words Mr. Blanky uttered were almost worse.

"I wonder what's become of our Francis," he said, tipping his own mug back. "I noticed he had quite a throng of admirers upon his return today. I doubt he knew what to do with himself." He chuckled, taking another swig before setting down the mug. 

James stared at him for a long moment. How in blazes had Thomas known he'd been thinking of Crozier? But then he quickly realized that, of course, he _ didn't _know. Francis and Thomas had been good friends before they'd ever set sail, and it was perfectly natural for him to wonder where his friend was spending the night.

"I suspect he's enjoying the attention of the fairer sex this evening," Fitzjames offered, taking note once more of the bitter tone in his own voice as he said it. 

"Aye, the lovely Miss Cracroft," Blanky said with a solemn nod. James thought he sensed a similar sentiment in his companion regarding Sophia. "She'll be the death of him, I warrant," Thomas added. 

"What do you know of her?" James asked, a little too eagerly perhaps. He still didn't know why he was so concerned about it, but he was thankful for a subject of conversation that didn't involve himself or his own feelings, at least. 

"Not much," Thomas said, sitting back in his seat and stretching his leg under the table. "Francis is as good as a tomb when it comes to keeping secrets. I've not been able to get much out of the old bugger. But I know she broke his heart. And I don't believe she's changed, or is ever likely to, despite all her tears and promises to the contrary." 

"I wonder what Francis sees in her," James said, folding his elegant fingers on the table. "She's pretty enough, I'll concede, but she isn't the ideal woman for Francis, if the rumours are to be believed."

"Aye, I'll grant you that," Thomas said, lifting his mug again. "But I dare say it's not his _ head _ that Francis is thinking with, if ye know what I mean." He chuckled under his breath and took a swig of ale, smacking his lips after having drained it. "Francis is no fool. He'll see through her before long, I'd wager." 

James was not convinced, nor comforted by Mr. Blanky's certainty, but what could he do or say? It was simply none of his business what Francis did with his life, in professional or personal matters. "Has he confided in you at all?" he asked Thomas, trying not to seem too interested.

"Not really. He's a man of few words, you know. And he doesn't speak freely about his...feelings." At this, he fluttered his fingers through the air, as though "feelings" might be some sort of magical fairy dust. "He's spoken to me about _ you_, though."

James felt his throat constrict, causing him to gag on the ale he was drinking. He dragged the back of one hand across his mouth and cleared his throat. "Indeed?" he sputtered. 

"He admires you, James. You might not see it, but he does. Oh, I've also heard him refer to you as Sir John Franklin's flouncy pet poodle, but in the time that's passed since we set sail, his opinion of you has changed considerably.”

James had to laugh at this description. Yes, he could hear Francis say the words as if he was sitting with them right then and there. 

"I think he was intimidated by you, if I'm honest," Thomas was saying. "Oh, he'd deny it 'til he was blue in the face, but I know him better than most, and I could tell. Francis Crozier has had to fight for everything he's ever had, his entire life. He's never been the best looking, the most wealthy, the best educated… but he's smart, and tenacious as a badger. He's a remarkable man, our Francis. But ask yourself, can you blame him for being envious of a man like you?"

"A man...like _ me_?" James said, momentarily forgetting that Mr. Blanky knew nothing of his own humble origins. At least it certainly seemed that Francis had not betrayed his confidence, for which he was eternally grateful. 

"Aye, a man like you," Blanky continued, waving a hand to gesture toward Fitzjames's person. "Handsome, resourceful, lauded as a hero. Why do you suppose he grumbled and poked fun at your stories of valour? It wasn't boredom I'd wager, but jealousy."

"Jealousy!" James huffed, laughing. The thought had honestly never occurred to him. He'd always assumed that Francis had found him contemptible from the beginning, as if he'd been able to see through his thin veneer the entire time. A pretender. A _ fraud _. 

"Well, never mind," Thomas said, grabbing his crutch. "Now that I've had my meal and my drink, I think I'll turn in for the night. I have to say, I'm glad you joined me, James. It would have been a lonely meal on my own."

"Agreed." James stood and waited for Thomas to hobble out of the booth on his false leg. "I'll be right behind you. I think I'll just have a breath of fresh air before bed."

"Right. Well don't stay out too late," Mr. Blanky said, giving James a wry smile and a wink before making his way laboriously up the stairs. James watched him go, half fearing that he might topple over and fall backwards down the stairs. This fear was unfounded, however, and once he'd seen Mr. Blanky reach the landing, James made his way to the front door. 

The evening air had turned cooler, though it was still much warmer than any temperatures they'd seen in all their time in the Arctic. The sky was clear and the stars were shining. James gazed up at them, trying to identify the constellations with which he'd become so well acquainted in the endless night on the ice, but they seemed to be playing a game of astronomical hide and seek, flickering into view one moment and winking out the next. The effect made him feel vaguely uneasy, as if some cosmic entity was playing a joke on him and the hammer was about to fall. With a heavy sigh, he turned around and re-entered the inn. 

When he reached their rooms upstairs, James found Thomas Blanky sprawled over the settee, fast asleep, a quilt slung over his limp body, and his wooden leg laying on the floor beside him. 

"You rascal," James muttered under his breath, understanding at once that the reason Thomas hadn't argued with him earlier about their sleeping arrangement was that he'd had no intention of considering the alternative. Fitzjames had half a mind to pick him up, carry him physically into the bedroom and tuck him into bed himself. But he didn't have the heart to wake him, so he simply conceded defeat, slipping into the bedroom and pulling the door closed with a soft click behind him. He flopped down on the bed and fell fast asleep before he'd even had time to undress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a teensy bit of a timeline discrepancy in this chapter, since I'll be backtracking next chapter to Francis's evening activities, but I think it will all come out in the wash. If not, I'll have to do some creative rearranging later on. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this slightly longer chapter! Thanks so much for reading, and don't forget to share your thoughts. I loooove hearing from you!! xo


	6. Chapter 4: A New Day Dawns

######  _ Part I - Francis _

As it happened, by the time Francis Crozier had freshened up and taken his evening meal with the Rosses, the hour was growing late. He decided it would be impertinent to demand an audience with a lady that late in the evening, so instead he retired early to the guest quarters, not wishing to impose on Sir James's reunion with his wife. 

As he lay on the luxuriously fitted bed, staring at the ceiling, Francis thought of all the men they had lost on the expedition. So many men. He'd formed a habit of reciting their names each night before bed, lest a single one of them should be forgotten. Every one of them, from the lowest of ship's boys, all the way to the expedition leader, himself, had died valiantly, in service to queen and country, and they  _ all  _ deserved to be remembered.

Having finished his evening recitation, Francis's thoughts turned to the surviving men. Once again, he felt that sharp pang of regret for not having waited for James before disembarking. Where was he now, he wondered. Was he still nearby? Or had he already made the trip home to see his friends and family? Thomas Blanky, he knew, was staying at the inn nearest the docks. He made a mental note to go and see him before he returned to Yorkshire. Maybe he would know where James was. Certainly, it couldn't hurt to ask.

Finally, he thought of Sophia. Beautiful, spirited Sophia. He  _ would _ propose to her. He  _ must _ do so. He was all but assured a knighthood for his leadership of the expedition, and with that honor, he could retire comfortably, having finally proven his worth both to the world and to Sophia. 

This was a foregone conclusion. As he'd said to Lady Jane so long ago, nothing else would do, and no other eventuality had even crossed his mind. Sophia had been the carrot on a string, dangled before his nose for so long that he couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been his heart's dearest desire. 

Of course... Those years in the ice had taught him what it meant to be truly motivated, to be determined to survive. But with those dark days behind him, he could return his focus to Sophia. They would marry, raise a family together, and live out their lives in perfect love, joy, and harmony. It was what he'd always wanted: his happily ever after.

So why was there a faint whisper in the farthest corner of his mind, questioning this plan?

He brushed the thought aside, counting it as an effect of over-tiredness or indigestion. It had been years since he'd eaten such a fine meal. Perhaps the rich food was wreaking havoc on his emotional constitution. Whatever the cause, there was no denying that he was exhausted. So, he pulled himself upright, dressed for bed, and was asleep within minutes of his head coming to rest on the pillow.

The next morning Francis rose early, as he always did now that he never had to contend with hangovers or lingering effects of a late night drinking binge. His sleep was still erratic, but he always rose with the dawn, if not before, even if he hadn't slept a wink. He was bathed, dressed, and ready for the day before Sir James and Ann emerged from their bedchamber, and had spent this solitary time writing a note to Sophia. He apologized for the delay in communication and requested the pleasure of her company that afternoon. It would have been proper, he knew, to give the lady at least a day's advance notice. However, after having been away in the barren wilderness, he felt that there was no time to lose, social mores be damned!

Before breakfast was served, he sent the message with a courier. Having instructed the man to wait for a reply, Francis mostly pushed the food around his plate with a sort of stifled frenetic energy. After the meal, he spent the greater part of the morning pacing the floor of the guest room in anticipation of a return message.

Every time a carriage clattered down the street, or the sound of a door or window opening or closing reached his ears, Francis would race to the window to see whether the messenger had returned. His stomach was full of butterflies, and he muttered softly to himself, rehearsing the words he might say to Sophia when they were alone together. 

Should he propose at once? He hardly wished to wait another moment when, now that he was back in England, every moment apart from her felt like a cruel punishment. But how could he put the words together? Even though every fiber of his being longed to ask her to be his bride, he knew that he had to be tactful with his words, lest he scare her off with his direct approach. 

Francis and Sophia had always had an open line of communication. At least, that had been his impression. She had minced no words in telling him that she found his social station unsatisfactory, and she'd not hesitated a moment before disrobing by that so-called platypus pond. She'd taken him out to the secluded spot and announced her intention to have a swim. After casually removing every last stitch of her clothing, she'd dived into the water with the grace of a swan, and then turned to him shamelessly, beckoning him to join her. 

Francis felt a warm flush creep up his neck as the memory replayed in his mind. He hadn't allowed himself to think on it in a very long time, and with the images flooding back into his memory, he wondered whether he might need to address the uncomfortable situation in which his body was placing him, before he could do or go anywhere. 

No. He had to focus. There would be plenty of time for that later, after he'd seen Sophia in the flesh. After he'd asked her to marry him. But how to do it… 

Utterly unsatisfied with anything he could concoct, he grumbled and swore, balling his fists and shaking his head as he ran through phrase after phrase. 

Francis Crozier had never been a polished speaker, like Sir John Franklin. And he'd never had the gift of storytelling, like Fitzjames. Sir John, of course, was gone now. But James… Perhaps James could help him find the words he was so desperate for. If only he knew where to find him. At that moment, he made up his mind to visit Thomas Blanky at the inn, immediately after hearing back from Sophia. 

There was a sudden rap at the door, and Francis nearly hurled himself from the room and down the marble staircase. One of the staff had already answered the door and was turning away from it by the time he'd descended. 

"Is there a message for me?" he asked the woman, nearly breathless from his mad dash down the stairs. 

"Yes, Sir," the woman said, looking a little alarmed by Crozier's state. He realized he must have looked slightly manic - not his usual state of being at all. "It was a messenger, Sir. Just arrived."

"Thank-you. I'll take it," Francis said, nearly ripping the folded bit of paper from her hands. He recognized the flowing script handwriting at once, and lifted the paper to his face, inhaling the scent of Sophia's perfume. 

"Where's the fire, old man?" Sir James asked, laughing as he strolled out from the sitting room with his lady at his side. "Is that the reply you've been waiting for? Ann and I lost count of how many laps you made in the room upstairs." At Francis's baffled expression, he added, "There's a loose board I've been meaning to have fixed."

"Yes. Yes, it's from Sophia," Francis said, too excited and nervous to feel embarrassment over his behavior. He carefully opened the paper and read it twice, just to be sure he didn't miss anything.

> My Dearest Francis,
> 
> I would be delighted to see you as soon as you are 
> 
> able to come. Lady Jane is away, traveling at the moment, 
> 
> and I am all alone at the Franklin house. 
> 
> I am dining with a friend this afternoon, but I would gladly 
> 
> welcome  your company this evening. Shall we say Seven O'clock? 
> 
> I am so looking forward to catching up on old times. 
> 
> It's been far too long, and I've missed you terribly.
> 
> Yours Always,
> 
> Sophia Cracroft

Francis could not contain the grin that blossomed on his lips, spreading ear to ear. He handed the letter to his friend, and watched Sir James's brows lift. 

"My, my, Francis. That is well after customary calling hours. Perhaps I should come along as chaperone," he said, handing the paper back, one brow still arched playfully. 

"Don't you dare," Francis said. He wasn't entirely sure whether his friend was joking or not, but his mind was already racing with excitement and anticipation. Yes, it was late in the evening for a social call on a lady. But then, Sophia Cracroft had never cared much for such apparently frivolous rules of society. 

"I'll be going back to the dock this morning," Crozier said suddenly, placing his hat on his head. "I'll have a visit with Thomas Blanky at the inn, and then head to the Franklin House. And James…" He paused, grinning. "Don't wait up for me."

Sir James Ross laughed, shaking his head as Francis walked out the door. "Give the lady my kind regards," he called after his friend before closing the door.

***

An hour later, Francis Crozier found himself standing outside the door of the room which - according to the innkeeper - was occupied by Thomas Blanky. He'd had no trouble finding a coach to take him to the dock, since the driver recognized him. He'd even insisted that the ride be at no charge to Francis, for which he was secretly grateful. 

Standing in the hallway at the inn, he paused, smiling as he heard his old friend's gruff voice muffled from behind the door. He was not alone, apparently, and Francis hoped he wouldn't be interrupting a special reunion with a friend of family member. Still, he'd come all this way to see Thomas, so he raised his fist and knocked at the door. 

Francis took a step backward, clasping his hands behind his back and waited. He could see a shadow and heard the sound of footsteps nearing the door. His mouth was already open to greet Thomas Blanky when the door swung open to reveal... not Thomas, but James Fitzjames! 

"James--" Francis croaked, the surprise knocking him off balance entirely. He found that his heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt slightly dizzy as he took in the sight of the other man. It was as if he'd conjured Fitzjames into being simply by wish he could speak with him. 

"Francis! What a surprise. Please, come in!" 

James Fitzjames was silhouetted in the doorway, sunlight streaming in through the window behind him to form a bright halo around his tall, lean form. He was wearing the beige sweater he'd so often donned on board Erebus, but without the shirt collar beneath, nor the cravat wrapped tightly around his neck, it had an entirely different look. Besides this, the knit sweater hung loosely on his slender frame, reminding Francis of just how much weight his fellow captain had lost while he'd been ill. 

James's dark hair lay in tidy waves, framing his long, angular face, and he was wearing a smile that could have lit up the whole of London with its infectious charm. Crozier couldn't keep his eyes from lingering at James's bare throat, his adam's apple just visible beneath the surface. Francis swallowed thickly, his mind blanking briefly.

"Francis?" James was studying him with some concern. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes! Yes, fine. I'm just... surprised to see you here." 

Mr. Blanky appeared at the door, peering around Fitzjames. "Francis! Well I'll be damned! Are ye comin' in, or have you only come to admire the outside of our door?"

***

######  _ Part II - James _

It had taken a moment after opening the door for recognition to dawn in his mind. Not that Francis Crozier looked any different from the way he had on the expedition. As a matter of fact, he looked like he might have been plucked straight off the deck of HMS Terror, the day they'd first set sail from this very port. He was dressed immaculately in his Royal Navy uniform, his peaked cap tucked neatly under one arm. It must have been the simple shock of suddenly seeing him standing outside the door that had jarred Fitzjames. 

The thought  _ had occurred  _ to him that Crozier might come to see Mr. Blanky at the inn, though he hadn't thought it would be so soon, and so he'd been completely unprepared for it. Francis, it seemed, had been equally surprised to find James in Thomas Blanky's room, for he simply stood there in the hallway, staring at James for a full thirty seconds before seeming to come to his senses and walk inside. 

James felt oddly vulnerable under the intense gaze of those pale blue eyes, once again feeling that this was a man who could see straight through him. Somehow, though, this thought was not as alarming as it had once been. He was surprised to find that he welcomed the thought of Francis Crozier knowing him -  _ actually, fully _ knowing him, and this realization was, in itself a shock to him.

The trio of men entered the small sitting area and all sat, hands folded in their laps and simply looking at one another like a group of children too shy to engage one another. Silence filled the room until Mr. Blanky finally cleared his throat and broke the spell. 

"Well, Francis, where did you spend the night, hm? Captain Fitzjames here hadn't made arrangements for lodging, so I invited him to stay with me for the night." A beat passed before he added with a little shrug, "I slept on the settee."

"I did  _ offer  _ to give him the bed," Fitzjames interjected, feeling the need to clarify, though he wasn't sure why it mattered all that much.

"Yes, yes. So he did," Thomas said with a dismissive gesture. "But I couldn't let him do that. What sort of a host would I be if I took the bed and forced my guest to sleep on the sofa?"

"A host who is paying for the room, for one thing," James insisted. "And one who has been gravely injured, to boot." 

Thomas laughed. "Aye, you're one to talk, when your entire midsection resembles swiss cheese!"

James waved him off with a chuckle before turning to Crozier, who had remained silent thus far.

"Oh..I uh.. I stayed with Sir James Clark Ross," Francis said, still seeming a little off-kilter. James wondered fleetingly if he was feeling under the weather, but then something shifted, and Crozier seemed to return to himself, feeling more at ease. He looked back and forth between Thomas and James with a smile, as if he'd just realized who they were.

"Forgive my preoccupation, I beg you. I know we only just parted ways yesterday afternoon, but it is  _ good  _ to see you both," he said, breaking into a broad smile. "That's a strange thing, isn't it? One would think we'd be sick to death of seeing one another after so long, smashed together in such close quarters like canned sardines."

Not at all," James said quickly. "I understand just what you mean. In fact, Mr. Blanky and I were talking about you just last night." He blinked, annoyed at himself for the words that seemed to be propelling themselves from his mouth without his mind's consent. "I mean… we wondered where you were staying," he amended, casting a nervous glance at Thomas. 

"Aye, that's right," said Mr. Blanky, with a cryptic grin. James didn't particularly like the look he was giving him. "We had a right good conversation over dinner. Most...illuminating."

James frowned at him, confused. He considered asking him to clarify, but quickly decided it was infinitely preferable that they change the subject entirely. "What are you about today, Francis?" he asked instead, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Francis stood from his seat, looking slightly frazzled once more. "Well, that's part of the reason I came, if truth be told," he said, walking to the window, his hands clasped behind his back again. As he went, James noticed that his knuckles were white with the tightness of his grip. There was definitely some pressing issue on his mind.

"Besides the simple fact that I missed your company…" he continued, glancing over his shoulder at them with a grin. "That goes for both of you, although I didn't know you were here, James. I am  _ glad _ that you are. Heartily so, in fact. To be frank, I need your help." 

James nodded, waiting expectantly to hear what it was that was needed. He felt an odd squirming in the pit of his stomach - an intuition that he would not enjoy this favor that Francis was about to ask of him.

Crozier spun on the balls of his feet so that he faced them fully, a look of resignation on his face as he said, "I've decided to propose to Miss Cracroft." 

James blinked. He felt as though someone had punched him hard in the solar plexus. He opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking. For once, James Fitzjames found himself utterly at a loss for words.

"I know, I know," Francis hurried to add, raising his hands in a gesture of supplication. "I know that she's rejected me. Twice, as you so delicately pointed out, James. But things have changed.  _ I  _ have changed. I'm a better man than I was before our journey, and I have reason to hope that she may accept me if I will only ask her one last time."

James felt something close to anger surge in his chest. Why, he couldn't be sure, but this announcement made him want to punch a hole in the wall. This was all wrong.  _ All  _ wrong. Only the night before, Mr. Blanky and he had come to the understanding that neither of them felt Sophia was the right woman for Francis. But never in his wildest dreams had he imagined the stubborn fool of an Irishman would rush headlong into such an idiotic maneuver. He felt his cheeks redden with emotion and drew in a breath, but Mr. Blanky spoke up before he could say anything.

"Well, Francis, this is excellent news!  _ Isn't that right, James _ ?" Mr. Blanky fixed him with a look that spoke decibels louder than words. It said, very clearly,  _ you'd damn well better not say anything stupid! _

"Yes... Yes, excellent news," James said with absolutely no conviction to his words. He wanted to argue the point - to beg Francis to please reconsider, but he would not do such a thing, especially in the presence of a third party. James hung his head slightly and stared at the floor, utterly despondent.

Francis seemed not to have noticed. "The difficulty is," he went on, now beginning to pace, his hands still tightly clenched behind him, "that I've no gift for words. I'm a man of  _ action. _ Flowery speeches have never been my forte, as you are both painfully aware, and I've no delusions to the contrary."

Abruptly, he stopped pacing and turned to James. "I need your help, brother."

These words acted like a brand new musket ball, straight to Fitzjames' heart. He drew in a sharp breath, his eyes widening, pleading with Francis not to say anything more that alluded to the conversation they'd had on the way back to camp on that fateful day. 

_ Are we brothers, Francis? I would like that...very much _

Francis had clapped him on the shoulders and nodded. Crozier had not answered him in words, but somehow the gesture had been incredibly intimate, and indescribably precious to Fitzjames. It had been the first, and only time he'd found the strength to bare his soul to another human being - to tell the full, unadulterated truth about who his parents were and where he'd come from. And it had been the one time he had felt  _ accepted  _ for who he truly was. 

The memory was one that James would cherish his entire life. So how dare he try to steal away the joy that Francis Crozier had obviously found in this mad notion of his? With all they'd been through together - all they'd survived, side by side - they truly had become brothers. Closer than brothers, if such a thing were possible. He owed it to Francis not to let him down now, no matter what the cost.

"What would you have me do?" he said, his large brown eyes gazing intently back into Francis's cool blue ones. 

  
  



	7. Chapter 5: Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to preemptively apologize for what you are about to read. Please believe me that this is all going somewhere! Stay with me here. I'll make it up to you, I promise! xo
> 
> Please see notes at end of chapter regarding Sophia’s character.

######  _ Part I - James _

James Fitzjames tried his best to help his friend. Or at least he told himself that he had. He'd managed to come up with something flowery and ingratiating which seemed to appease Francis, though he loathed himself for doing it. What if the silly woman actually did accept his proposal? She would almost certainly end up breaking Francis's heart, and then Fitzjames would not only feel sympathy for his friend, but would actually be complicit in orchestrating his pain. Still, he forced himself to do what was asked of him.

Mr. Blanky had offered his own - usually crass, and always sardonic - suggestions from time to time. Between offering up these pearls of wisdom, he kept himself in motion as much as possible, lumbering around the small flat, hobbling downstairs for drinks and again for some food at mealtime. James wished he could be wandering around as well. Sitting still with the task at hand was making him feel restless and uneasy.

When the short speech was completed and transcribed neatly on a slip of paper for Francis to take with him, James leveled his gaze on his companion. He watched as Francis read and reread the words, in what he guessed was an attempt to commit them to memory. Crozier's frenetic energy had waxed and waned throughout the day, but James noted hat he looked well rested, like he'd slept more soundly last night than he had in all their time on the ice, just as James had, himself. 

Despite the unpleasant work, he had to admit that it felt good having Francis close again. In their last days in the Arctic, James had come to think of Francis, not only as a friend and brother, but as a sort of guardian - a protector, almost. Someone to be counted on and leaned on. Someone to trust. There was a certain peaceful assurance that came from being near him, now, that Fitzjames found soothing. 

"Will you be returning to Ireland?" he asked, breaking the silence between them. Mr. Blanky was downstairs in the pub, so James and Francis had the flat to themselves. 

"I think not," Francis answered, glancing up from the slip of paper. "Assuming that Miss Cracroft accepts my proposal of marriage, I will want to remain as close to her as I can. I may take rooms in London, eventually. In the meanwhile, Sir James Ross has invited me to remain as his guest indefinitely, though of course, I do not wish to outstay my welcome there."

"And if she rejects you a third time?" James was surprised by the harsh tone his voice had taken, and he fully expected Francis to retaliate in anger, but the man seemed to be fully preoccupied with his own thoughts, and if he noticed the bite behind James's words, he showed no sign of offense.

"We shall cross that bridge when we come to it," he replied without looking up from the paper. When he had scanned it for the fourth or fifth time, Francis folded the paper and slipped it into one of his trouser pockets. James felt something shift in his chest when Francis's gaze finally met his own and lingered there. A tightening around his heart, or a quickening. 

"And what about you, James? Will you return to your family home?"

"I am as yet undecided. I will be visiting them for a time, once we've made our appearances before the Admiralty and all our affairs are put in order here," he answered, spreading his hands, palms up. "I'm uncertain as to my long-term plans. Perhaps I'll take another commission - lead my own expedition." 

This statement seemed,  _ finally,  _ to capture Crozier's full attention. His brows pinched together, forming a deep crease in the center of his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. "But surely that won't be necessary, James. Would you not prefer to remain in England, at least for a time, to recover your full strength? We're to be heralded as heroes. You'll be knighted, for certain."

Fitzjames shook his head. "If there is anything I have learned in my time with the Royal Navy, Francis, it is that  _ nothing _ is certain. But even if so, what of it? Sir John had already been knighted, yet he chose to accept the assignment to the expedition for the Passage."

"Yes, and look where it's gotten him," Francis replied sharply, his voice rising slightly in agitation. 

James couldn't help but feel a certain satisfaction at this. 

"You nearly  _ died _ , James," he was saying now. "Is your life truly of so little importance to you?" 

"Anyone would think you'd turned coward to hear you speak thus, Francis," James retorted, his momentum building. The sour thing that had lain coiled in the pit of his stomach was stretching itself now, unfurling like a cobra rising slowly from a snake charmer's basket. It felt good to lash out just a little. It felt, if nothing else, familiar, since poking and prodding at Francis Crozier had always been a favorite pastime of his. There was a certain delicious pleasure that came from getting a rise out of the typically sullen, brooding Irishman. 

Crozier stared at him, dumbstruck, and James could practically see the gears turning in his mind, trying to determine whether he was being serious or not, and whether he ought to take offense. It was vaguely reminiscent of the look he'd seen in those blue eyes right before getting punched in the face on board Terror. Realizing he had, perhaps, taken a step too far, he grinned and waved a hand dismissively. 

"Relax, Francis. I meant no offense. Do not trouble yourself with  _ my  _ professional future. In the time it would likely take me to find a suitable commission, you shall be married and happily retired to a civilian's life. I've never been one to settle down; you ought to know that. I shall probably die at sea, and I've long since made my peace with such a fate."

Francis was still frowning, though the crease between his brows had leveled slightly. "I only want you to be happy, James," he said, his voice softer now. "You deserve that much." He leaned forward and reached out to touch James's hand briefly. James wondered whether there had been an actual static discharge when their hands met, or if it had been only in his mind. Crozier gave no sign. "If leading an expedition is what it will take to reach that end, then so be it."

Fitzjames withdrew his hand and sat back in his chair, wondering why he felt very little satisfaction with having convinced Crozier of the validity of his plans so easily. But, at least Francis didn't seem to be angry with him, so there was at least that consolation, and his hand still tingled where Francis had touched it moments ago.

***

Perhaps two minutes after Francis had taken his leave, the door opened, and Mr. Blanky reappeared with two glasses of an amber colored liquid. He walked across the room to where James still sat, looking out the window at the street below, watching Crozier's carriage move down the street until it was no longer visible. 

"Thought ye might need a drink after all that romance shite," he said, plopping himself down on the settee and spilling a few drops of the liquid on the rug below. "Brandy. Take it. You'll feel better," he persisted, holding the plump ballooned glass out.

James stared at it dumbly for a moment before reaching out to take the drink. He swirled it in the snifter and took a whiff of it. Strong. He took a long sip, smacking his lips with a sigh afterward.

"What makes you think I'm in need of comforting?" he asked Thomas, fixing him with an inquisitive gaze.

"Just a hunch. Ye been around the world 'much as I have, ye pick up on certain things." He shrugged and took a long pull on his own drink. James couldn't tell if he was already on his way to being intoxicated or if this was simply his usual glib manner. It was always difficult to tell with Mr. Blanky.

"I'm fine," James insisted, though his voice and body language stood in direct contradiction to his words. He turned his body toward the window again and took another sip of the brandy. It burned going down his throat, and within moments he began to feel his body warm with the effects of the liquor. "But I do appreciate the gesture," he added, not wanting to appear ungrateful. In truth, he was far  _ more  _ grateful for this kindness than he intended to let on.

"It's no trouble," said Mr. Blanky, who was studying James with an unsettling level of scrutiny. 

"Something on your mind, Mr. Blanky?" Fitzjames asked irritably.

"Aye, I'm trying to work out what's on  _ yours _ ," he replied. "There's no shame in being concerned for the wellbeing of a friend. You needn't feel self-conscious about that. I know how you feel about Miss Cracroft, but you must understand that I've known Francis Crozier for many years, and I understand how his mind works." He tapped his temple with one forefinger for emphasis. "If you'd breathed the slightest hint of your disapproval, Francis would only have dug his heels in more firmly to prove you wrong."

Fitzjames gave a little grunt of acknowledgement. The brandy was beginning to calm his nervous tension, but he still felt vaguely unhappy with the state of things. He swallowed the remainder of his brandy and set the snifter down heavily on the side table. Under the effects of the alcohol, he allowed the frustration he'd felt earlier begin to bubble up in his chest again. 

"I just can't work out why he's doing this," he said, throwing up his hands dramatically and rising from his seat to pace the floor. "What could he possibly see in her that would make it worth risking the humiliation to propose to a woman who has already rejected him, not once but twice? Even if she does accept his proposal now, can he truly be so blind as to believe her change of heart is due to a love for him, and not for the promise of a title or wealth? It's infuriating!"

Mr. Blanky sat back in the settee and listened, nodding and making the appropriate noises at the appropriate times while James vented his frustrations. By the time he was finished, James's cheeks were blazing and his head felt fuzzy, like it had been stuffed with wool.  _ It's the brandy, _ he thought, cursing himself for having drank it so quickly. Finally, he slumped back into the chair with a long exasperated sigh. He hardly dared to meet Mr. Blanky's gaze, but finally did so. 

Thomas gave him a warm and sincere, yet knowing smile. "I think, perhaps, y'er a little jealous," he said simply. 

James balked at him. "Jealous! Ha!" he scoffed. "That's preposterous."

"No… No, it isn't," he said. "Think about it. We were stranded out in that frozen wasteland for 3 years. Living under those conditions, in such close quarters… it changes a man. And you and Francis… Well, you had a unique relationship. You worked to overcome your differences and learned to work together. As the two commanding officers, you shared a level of responsibility that the other men couldn't understand - that bound you together. I watched the two of you. I know you grew close. And so it's only natural that, now we're back home and Francis's attentions are directed elsewhere… Well, it seems logical to me that you might feel a bit of jealousy." 

James, who had been staring at Thomas with his mouth hanging halfway open, blinked slowly. He considered it, or tried to, through the brandy-induced haze that had fallen over him, but then shook his head again. 

Thomas gave him a little shrug and said, "Maybe I'm wrong. But hear me out. Even if Francis does marry Sophia, it doesn't mean he won't still be your friend."

James sighed again, nodding. "Thank-you, Mr. Blanky," he said, having no other words. Was it possible that he actually  _ was  _ jealous? "I think I'll just have a short walk," he said, standing to his feet once more. "Clear my head a bit. Would you care to join me?"

Thomas shook his head. "Oh, no. I'll stay here. But enjoy your walk."

It was only after he'd stepped out into the slanting afternoon sun that it occurred to Fitzjames that Thomas Blanky had intentionally left Francis and him alone, only returning - with drink at the ready - immediately following Francis' departure.

***

######  _ Part II - Francis _

Francis stood just outside the front door of the Franklins' London home. He felt unaccountably nervous, with a swarm of butterflies' wings beating furiously in his stomach. He’d seen Sophia just the day before, but it had been in a rush of emotion, and there had been little thought involved - only feeling. 

Now, however, with the paper bearing James's words burning a hole in his pocket, and his own frenzied nerves burning a hole in his stomach, he couldn’t  _ stop  _ thinking. James's words rang in his ears. _ _

_ And if she rejects you a third time? _

At the time, he had blown it off, but now the possibility of a third refusal seemed very real, indeed almost certain. Why had he assumed otherwise? 

Francis patted his pocket for the hundredth time, making sure the slip of paper was still there. He was fairly certain he'd committed the words to memory, but just in case he should become tongue-tied when the moment came, he wanted to be sure he had it available. Satisfied that all was in place, he finally raised a hand to the knocker and made his presence known. 

Within moments, the door opened and a young woman appeared, regarding Francis appraisingly. 

"I'm expected," he said with a tilt of his head. "Captain Francis Crozier, calling on Miss Sophia Cracroft."

"Ah, yes," the woman said, her wary expression softening slightly. "Come in. Miss Cracroft has instructed me to escort you to her at once."

Francis followed the girl inside, glancing this way and that, hoping to catch a glimpse of his hostess. The house appeared exactly the same as how he remembered it from before the expedition, and he couldn't help cringing at the memories it held within its walls. Some were pleasant memories, of course, but others were decidedly less so. 

"This way, Sir," the girl was saying. "Just here." She stopped outside a large mahogany door, which Francis knew to be the entrance to the drawing room. "I'll leave you to it, then," she said, gave a quick curtsy, and hurried off in the direction from which they'd come. 

Francis stood there, perplexed for a moment. Why had she not shown him into the room? Should he knock on the door, or simply walk in unannounced? Frowning with puzzlement, Francis finally turned the knob and opened the door.

The drawing room was dimly lit with the curtains drawn, but there was a fire burning on the hearth. It took a few moments for Francis's eyes to adjust as he swept the room for any sign of Sophia. He took a tentative step inside and that was when he saw her. She was seated on the floor in front of the fire with her legs curled beneath her, halfway reclining on a large fur throw. She did not rise, but held out a hand to him. 

"Come and join me by the fire, Francis," she said, and the tone of her voice sent shivers running up and down Crozier's spine. 

Francis carefully lowered himself to the floor beside her, took her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. "Miss Cracroft…" he said softly, his lips still hovering over her knuckles. Her expression was unreadable, and it occurred to him for the first time since returning that she was very likely still mourning the loss of her uncle. He knew that word had been sent to the family as soon as they'd reached civilization, but that had only been weeks previous. Grief, he knew, would not be rushed. 

"Please accept my condolences on the loss of your uncle," he said, casting his gaze downward. She offered him a sad smile, but did not cry, nor did she show any sign that she  _ might  _ cry. 

"Thank-you, Francis," she said. "Aunt Jane never gave up on him, you know. She took the news poorly, and has gone back to her family's country estate to spend time with her loved ones. She did ask me to accompany her, but…" She glanced down at her their hands, then lifted hers, pressing her palm to his, lacing their fingers together. "I wanted to be here when you returned." 

"I am grateful that you remained," he said. 

Sophia nodded. "And now that we are reunited, let us not speak of grief and death. Let us celebrate your return with joy." 

Francis was exceedingly relieved to hear her say these words with earnest conviction. "Not a day has passed that I haven't thought of you, Sophia. Missed you. Dreamed of you." This was not strictly true. Out on the ice, there had been many days when his thoughts had been utterly consumed with the threats looming constantly on the horizon, both from without and from within. But he didn't think a slight exaggeration would hurt.

"I've missed you, too, Francis. Very much. I cannot tell you how many times, in your absence, that I wished… well…" She glanced down again, her smile faltering, and when she looked up again, there were tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you, Francis. You must believe me."

Crozier shook his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he said. "You were honest with me, and for that I am grateful. But perhaps… I know it's not strictly conventional. I ought to wait, at least until Lady Jane returns, but… Perhaps you would allow me to pose a question now?" This was the moment. He couldn't have asked for a better lead-up, but now that the moment had arrived, his mind went completely blank. Clumsily, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the slip of paper. 

James's handwriting presented itself to him, and the sight of it warmed his heart and grounded him. No matter what happened here, tonight, he knew that he could rely on the friendship of James Fitzjames. He cleared his throat and began to read, but Sophia interrupted him. She placed her hand over his and took the paper from him, crumpling it in her delicate fist.

"If you would ask for my hand in marriage, I would have you speak from the heart. Not from a slip of paper," she said. With a flick of her slender wrist, she tossed the love speech into the fire. 

Francis watched in horror as the it burned, glowing brightly before turning black and curling in on itself, a wretched, dead thing. A sudden flash of memory exploded in his mind - the carnivale - the conflagration - the screams - so many lives lost. Such a waste. He stared at her, still in shock at her brash action. Anger kindled in his chest, but he tried to stifle it out as best he could. He was being unreasonable, surely. She could not know the horrors to which he'd bourne witness. Yet watching James's words burn felt like a further loss. 

Sophia, watching him intently, took his horror and anger for anxious nerves. "Go on," she encouraged, leaning forward slightly. It was only then that Francis took note of what she was wearing. It was not the typical cinched up Victorian gown, which he was accustomed to seeing her wear. This was a satin, flowing dress, looser and less structured. His brows knit together as he tried to get a handle on his confusion and rein in the rage that threatened to burst forth, just as the paper had burst into flame. 

Sophia's hand moved to her throat, her long elegant fingers tracing a line from her chin to her collarbone, drawing his gaze with its suggestive motion. The act was enough to pull him from his sour thoughts, so Francis cleared his throat and began again. 

"Miss Cracroft," he said. "I am a man of humble means. You know that better than most. But I have striven my entire life to better myself. I've returned from this expedition victorious, and I expect that I will be honored for my services to Her Majesty's Royal Navy and to the realm. It is my sincerest intention and dearest hope that you would do me the honor of becoming my wife."

Without warning, Sophia lunged forward, throwing her arms around Francis's neck. "Yes," she whispered. He felt her breath, warm on his ear and he shivered. Slowly, he lifted his arms to wrap around her, and his heart stuttered. 

Sophia Cracroft was not wearing a corset. 

Apparently reading correctly the hitch in his breath, Sophia let out a soft, breathy sound that might have been a chuckle. She pulled back from his embrace and, with one hand to his shoulder, pushed him back onto his rump so that he was sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. Any anguish Francis Crozier had felt over the loss of the note immediately fled his mind as he watched Sophia rise onto her knees and begin to slowly unbutton the front of her dress. 

"I had hoped you would ask me," she said softly. Her gaze rested steadily on him, a triumphant - almost defiant - grin on her lips, as she gently pulled the fabric aside and let the robe (for Francis could now clearly see that this was what it was) slip from her shoulders to pool around her on the blanket. He felt lightheaded, all his blood rushing straight from his head to his nether regions as his eyes roamed slowly over her bare body, following the graceful sweep of her collarbones, caressing her fair, silky skin, and lingering at her breasts, small but lovely. His mouth was dry and his mind was blank, a sudden throbbing between his legs the only sensation registering at all.

"Sophia…" he stammered, feeling that he ought to protest, but also terrified of breaking the spell. 

"No more words, Francis," she said, gathering up the robe and tossing it aside, leaving her entirely naked. "There is no one in the house, save for Marrianne, who greeted you, and she has strictest orders not to interrupt our time together. We will not be disturbed. No one will know. Just this once… allow me to show you how much I have missed you."

Francis nodded, swallowing thickly as the very last thread of his resolve instantly snapped. His only thought now was how to most quickly discard his own clothing. Sophia moved closer, crawling into his lap, and kissed him, long and deep.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to point out that I am basing Sophia’s character heavily on her portrayal in the novel by Dan Simmons. if you’re unfamiliar with it, do a google search for “The Terror Platypus Pond” and you will see what I mean. 😂 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. I know this was a rough chapter in some ways, but things will begin to shift very soon, so please don’t give up on me!


	8. Chapter 6: Ashes

######  _ Part I - Francis _

Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier woke, as he always did, early. It took him a few moments to recall where he was. There was only the faintest glow from the rising sun permeating the curtains that lined the Frankins' drawing room. 

Sophia Cracroft, still sound asleep, lay beside him. He realized that she must have gotten up some time in the night while Francis was asleep, because she was once again wearing the robe she'd had on when he'd first arrived. Meanwhile he, to his embarrassment, was still completely naked, wrapped in the fur blanket on which they'd made love the night before. She looked incredibly peaceful and beautiful, with her head propped on a satin pillow, her hair spilling over the edges of the fabric like a silken halo.

Francis pushed himself up on an elbow with a grunt. His entire body ached, and each movement produced a stabbing pain, like shards of glass in his joints. There was a brief moment of panic, when he wondered if he would be able to get up from the floor at all, but he managed to hobble to his feet with a not-so-subtle reminder that he was, in fact, twenty years Sophia's senior.

Quickly gathering his clothing from the floor, he shimmied into his uniform. The more alert he became, the more the sense of dread twisted in his gut. He had not intended to spend the night here - not at all. He must have fallen fast asleep after their intimate encounter, and not stirred until just a few moments ago. How could he have been so careless? It wasn't like him to throw caution to the wind this way. Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier was a careful, calculating, and meticulous man, and this sort of behavior was simply not acceptable.

Francis knew that he needed to proceed with extreme caution, for both their sakes. If he were to be spotted leaving the Franklin home this early, it would not look good for either of them, but especially for Sophia. He  _ could _ , of course, claim that it had gotten late, and that he had spent the night in the guest suite, but he knew that this story would be suspicious, at best. Rumours caught on quickly, and there would be an enormous scandal before he'd had a chance to make his case. 

Francis turned his gaze to the fireplace. The fire had long since burned out, by the look of it. There was no warmth radiating from the grate, and all that was discernible now, in its place, was ash. Suddenly, he remembered the night before, when Sophia had tossed James's speech into the fire without a second thought, and a vast emptiness seemed to open up in his chest at the thought of it - that deep, penetrating sense of loss. Of course, Sophia couldn't have known that her action would be so hurtful to Francis. For one thing, she'd had no idea that James had written the words on those paper. No, she couldn't be held accountable for that indiscretion. But that didn't quench the ache in his heart at the loss. 

Before he knew was he was doing, Francis was on his knees in front of the hearth, sifting through the ash with his fingers, desperately seeking for any remaining charred scraps of the paper, his sense of panic rising with each moment that his fingertips met only powder. 

"Francis? What are you doing?" 

He turned, startled by Sophia's sleepy voice behind him. She was staring at him in wide eyed confusion. "Oh, I was just...uh...looking for...something," he said, suddenly feeling foolish. 

"You're not hunting for that silly scrap of paper, are you Francis?" she asked. He detested the teasing grin that tugged at her lips. Was she making fun of him? What right had she to mock his pain? Still, he supposed he did look ridiculous on hands and knees, sifting through cold ash.

"No. Of course not," he lied, standing up again. What  _ had _ he been doing? He'd felt compelled to sort through the wreckage - he needed to account for everyone, to find any survivors - to salvage whatever could be saved. 

But no. This was only a fireplace, not the scene of a tragedy. He was here, in the Franklin's home in London. He felt a little dizzy as he brushed the ashes from his hands. 

"We've made a mistake, Sophia," he said, turning to her. "I should not have stayed here all night. How will it look if I am seen?" 

Sophia seemed unperturbed. "You  _ won't  _ be seen, Francis. I woke in the night and informed Marianne that you had already gone. She never wakes before dawn. If you go at once, there will be no one  _ to _ see you."

This felt wrong. Dirty, almost. The night before, by the warmth and light of the fire, things had felt different. Sophia had accepted his proposal, and when she'd crawled into his lap, all rational thought had flown out the window. It had simply _felt_ _right_. 

Yet now, in the cool light of dawn, everything felt quite different. He felt a sharp and inexplicable desire to see and speak with James, though he dreaded telling him that his beautiful proposal had been burned without having been read. Perhaps he could spare James that detail. Or, rather, he could spare  _ himself  _ the humiliation of telling it. But he needed to confer with Fitzjames. James would be able to calm him down.

"Very well. I shall go. But first, let us discuss our plans." He smiled, trying to force himself into a better state of mind. We are, after all, to be married. We have a wedding to plan."

Sophia smiled up at him, but there was something distant in her eyes. "There's no need to rush, Francis," she said. We shall have all the time in the world to plan the perfect wedding, but now you must hurry. Before Marrianne wakes. Go."

***

######  _ Part II - James _

After his walk, James felt a little more at ease. He'd strolled along the docks, breathing in the familiar and comforting smell of the salty air and had found a bench on which he'd sat and looked out over the harbor until the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, a huge orange ball sinking into the depths. 

By the time he'd returned to the room, Mr. Blanky was already asleep again, once more sprawled over the settee and snoring softly. Not for the first time, James wondered about this enigmatic man. He knew very little about Thomas Blanky, beyond the fact that he was a whaler by trade, and that he had a wife and children at home. James imagined that he must be anxious to return to them after so long apart, and he wondered why they hadn't been here to greet him. Perhaps they hadn't even been aware that he'd returned. 

More than this, though, he wondered what it was that made Thomas Blanky "tick." James had never once seen him lose his composure. Even when the man was battling a monster, and then having his leg amputated at the knee, he was defiantly calm, tossing banter and making light of the most dire of situations. Was there anything that Thomas Blanky was afraid of? Surely, every man was afraid of  _ something. _

James hadn't thought much about the nature of fear before the expedition. Even in the Arctic, he'd simply soldiered on, day after day. But now that they had returned home, he'd been thinking a lot about his own mortality. He'd all but called Francis a coward earlier that day, but in his heart, he feared he was becoming one, himself.

Exhausted and downcast, James prepared for bed.

The night was filled with some of the most strange and disturbing dreams James Fitzjames could remember ever having, most of which revolved around Francis and Sophia. Generally, they consisted of him begging Francis to reconsider, and Francis turning a deaf ear to his plees, immediately turning his back on James and going to Sophia. What happened after that varied from dream to dream. Sometimes, Sophia would transform from human to Tuunbaq, and she would devour Francis whole, before coming after James. Other times, she remained a human and beautiful, and grinned wickedly at James before leading Francis away by the hand, never to be seen again. There were countless variations between these two extremes, but none of them were pleasant, and James woke covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his heart racing, and a dull ache in his chest. 

Sitting up and turning to place his feet on the floor, James leaned forward with his head in his hands. He could  _ not  _ stand by silently and let this tragedy unfold. He  _ had _ to tell Francis that he was making a grave mistake. If he held his tongue, he would regret it forever.

***

James made his excuses to Thomas before hiring a coach to take him into London. He'd made up his mind in earnest while eating breakfast that he would pay a visit to Francis as Sir James Clark Ross's home that very day, and now he was stepping down from the carriage in front of the Rosses' elegant residence. He looked up at the building with firm resolution. This would not be easy, but it was something which  _ had _ to be done, for Francis' sake, if also to a lesser degree, his own.

James was just about to lift the knocker when the door was thrust open and Francis Crozier, himself, stepped outside. James blinked at him, startled by his appearance, both in its suddenness and its effect. If Francis had been troubled but rested yesterday, today he seemed to be the exact opposite. There were dark circles under his slightly reddened eyes, and he was moving a little stiffly, but there was a grin on his face stretching practically from ear to ear. James's eyes were drawn to the slight gap between his front teeth. This trait had always fascinated him somehow. 

James opened his mouth to speak, but Francis cut him off, placing one hand on each of his shoulders. For one bizarre moment, he thought Francis was going to lean in and kiss him, but then the moment passed, and Crozier was turning him around. 

"Come, James. Let us find a place we can talk in private. I have much to tell you." 

"Oh..." James stammered, completely taken off guard by this turn of events. "We're not far from Hyde Park. I passed it just now in the carriage." 

"Perfect," Francis said, practically tugging him along. "I hope you're in the mood for a walk, James. I, myself, am in need of a leg stretch." 

They walked the several blocks to Hyde Park in near silence, as Francis seemed to be preoccupied with his own thoughts again. Meanwhile, Fitzjames rehearsed in his mind the words he'd planned to say to Francis. He'd prepared an entire speech - a one-sided debate, as it were, detailing each reason he felt that an engagement to Sophia Cracroft was a bad idea. By the time he had finished his expostulation, Francis would be practically  _ guaranteed _ to change his mind about Sophia. He had to. 

Once they'd finally reached the park, the pair took seats on a bench overlooking the bank of a small duck pond. It was autumn in London, and the weather was temperate, the leaves just beginning to turn their vibrant shades of gold, orange, and red, all reflected in the water, whose clarity was broken only by the gentle wake of the ducks, rippling outward from their paths. 

James felt more nervous than he thought was reasonable, but he mustered his nerve and turned to his friend. 

"Francis, there is something about which I must speak with you," he said.

Crozier turned to him, once again wearing that almost manic expression. "No, wait, James. Please. I know you've come all this way, and I can only guess that there must be something important on your mind for you to have made the trip. But before we begin, there is something which  _ I  _ must tell  _ you. _ " 

James felt dread welling in his stomach, which was becoming an all-too familiar sensation these past few days. He was too late. He should have known.

"James, I've asked Sophia to marry me, and she's accepted my proposal." 

James stared at his friend with an expression he sincerely hoped was pleasant, or at the very least, blank. Disappointment flooded his chest, making it hard to breathe. 

He could still say his piece. Could still make his case. It was imperative that he do so.

But Francis was so close, and so  _ happy _ . Could he really steal that happiness away from him, after all they'd suffered? He tried with all his might to think of a single time that he'd seen Francis Crozier look this happy, but he could not come up with a single instance. He was still speaking, but James was no longer listening. All he could hear was the sound of his own defeat - his own internal voice, telling him that he'd been a fool to help Francis with the ludicrous love speech yesterday. He ought to have voiced his concerned then and there, Mr. Blanky be hanged. 

"And so, I wanted you to be the first to hear the news from me, James," he heard Francis saying. "I'm so grateful for your friendship. And I'm so very grateful for your help. I might not have had the nerve to go through with it if not for you."

_ Well. Thank-you for that final nail in my coffin, _ James thought, silently cursing himself and his own cowardice. 

"You're welcome, Francis," he said quietly. "I um…" He turned away, looking out over the duck pond, and wished he could dive into the water and be gone. How could he say the words he'd rehearsed now? He could not.

"What is it, James," Francis asked, placing a hand on Fitzjames' arm. 

"It's nothing. Nothing," he said, forcing himself not to shake the hand off of him. 

"Very well..." Francis said, though it was obvious he didn't believe James, as well he shouldn't. The joy that had been etched on his face moments ago had now been replaced with an expression of concern - even annoyance. He had obviously been expecting a very different reaction to his news.

"Well, then, what was it you wanted to discuss with me?" 

James frowned and swiped at his nose with one hand - a nervous tell of his. "I…" He glanced at Francis, and then away again, one knee jiggling frenetically. "I was only eager to hear whether you had made your proposal," he finally said, turning back to Francis and forcing a smile which he hoped looked more convincing than it felt. "Please allow me to be the first to offer you my most hearty congratulations. I am honored that you thought of me."

This last statement was, at least, true: he did feel honored that Francis had wanted him to be the first to know. James wasn't sure whether Francis actually believed this excuse for his visit or not, but the smile was creeping back onto his face, and he did not press the issue. 

"I can hardly believe it," he said, sitting back on the bench and stretching his legs out in front of him. "Just think of it, James. Only a month ago, we were certain we'd die in that barren wasteland. And now, look at us! Back on English soil, hale and hearty, likely to be knighted, and me, about to marry  _ Sophia Cracroft _ ! It feels like a dream." 

_ A nightmare, more like, _ thought James, but he nodded. "Meanwhile, I'm to become a confirmed old bachelor, I warrant," he said, trying to sound mirthful. 

"Nonsense, James!" Francis reprimanded. "You could have your pick of any lady in the city of London, or the entirety of England, I'd wager! All you need do is look around. The world is your oyster. Isn't that what Mister Shakespeare said?"

"I've never liked oysters," James said shortly.

Francis paused thoughtfully. "Well, oysters or not, the fact remains that you are one of the most  _ eligible _ bachelors in England. I've heard you referred to as the 'handsomest man in the Royal Navy,' after all. That must account for something." 

James chuckled. He had heard rumors of such things being said, though he'd never taken them all that seriously. Still, hearing the words coming from Francis was cheering. 

"I don't know, Francis," he finally said. "I'm not certain I'm the marrying type. I can't quite envision settling down and raising a family. But, perhaps…"

They remained quiet for a few minutes, watching the ducks swim in circles, occasionally bobbing under the water for a small fish or aquatic insect to nibble on. Francis broke the silence. 

"There's to be a court-martial, you know, for deserting our ships. Though I expect we'll receive a full pardon, given the extenuating circumstances, and our ultimate success in charting the passage."

"Yes, so I heard. The tribunal is to be held next week."

"Aye…" 

Suddenly, there seemed to be nothing else to be said. They remained by the pond a few minutes more, and then James suddenly stood to his feet with an exaggerated stretch. 

"I should return to the inn. Thomas will be wondering whether I've been taken hostage and held for ransom," he said. For just an instant, he thought he saw disappointment flicker across Francis's face, but then it was gone, replaced by that stupid grin. James felt the sudden urge to slap it off his face. 

_ Why in Heaven's name am I so **angry**,  _ he wondered.

"All right, James," Francis said, following suit and standing. "Shall I walk you to the depot?"

"No!" he said quickly. Perhaps a little  _ too  _ quickly. Francis looked momentarily hurt but this, too, passed quickly. "No, thank-you, Francis. It's only just around the corner. Besides, no doubt you are anxious to share your splendid new with the Rosses."

"I am, in fact," said Francis with a nod. "Very well, then, James. I shall see you at the court-martial. And, James… Thank-you, again. You've been a true friend to me. I'm exceedingly grateful for that. For  _ you. _ "

James nodded and quickly turned away, before Francis could see the anguish in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you, this story will turn MUCH less grim very soon - probably in the very next chapter, actually, which is likely to be a little longer than previous chapters. Thank-you for bearing with me as I build the (somewhat depressing) groundwork for what is to come. I appreciate you all so much for reading. So, thank-you! Please leave me your thoughts. I always look forward to reading them. xo


	9. Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be presented wholly from James's point of view. I had intended to go further with this chapter, including a Francis section later on, but decided that it was getting a little bit long to be only a half-way point. Furthermore, as I'm trying to update frequently, I decided to add this chapter as-is. The next chapter will likely be entirely from Francis' POV. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Fitzjames did not try to connect with Francis again in the days leading up to the court martial. Several of his reasons for this involved emotions he did not fully understand, but the most practical reason was that there were simply not sufficient hours in the day. There were friends to call on, the tailor to stand for, the cobbler to sit for, and the barber's blade to submit to, for a start. The remainder of his free time was spent in hunting for a more permanent dwelling for himself, since he could not stay on indefinitely in the cramped quarters above the pub. 

He continued to take most of his meals with Thomas Blanky, and every evening when he returned to their shared rooms, he found Thomas conveniently asleep on the settee. James never did let on that he'd heard the other man hobbling around the apartment each night, when once he'd gotten into bed, himself, with the door closed. 

As the time for the court martial drew closer, James began to feel more and more anxious. He did not share Crozier's uncharacteristic optimism about the proceedings. Yes, they had successfully discovered and marked the Nor'west Passage, but they had abandoned both ships, and many lives had been lost, from both crews. There would necessarily be recompense for these losses, though there was no compensation that could ever truly repay the loss of life. During his darker moments, James felt that none of them deserved to be given any honor for their feats, if they even deserved to be alive at all. He'd long since made up his mind that he would gladly serve whatever sentence the Admiralty might see fit to impose on him.

One day, having acquired new clothing, boots, and hat, he paid a call to two of his old friends who had accompanied him on one of his earlier Naval commissions. James Fitzjames had always been the life and soul of any party. He was jovial, sanguine, and always ready with the engaging tale of his past military heroics and adventures all over the globe. However, since returning to England, he'd found that he no longer had the energy, nor the desire for such social excitement, so it was with some apprehension that he stepped up to the door and rapped the knocker. 

Escorted into the parlor, James was heartily greeted by Arthur Dunworthy and Collin Brandywell. He returned their exuberant greetings, slapping them on the back and laughing as they took in the sight of each other. 

"You haven't aged a day, I'll swear," James said, glancing between his two friends. "When did we last meet? Was it 1843? No, surely it hasn't been since '41!" They debated on the timeline briefly before sitting. James couldn't help but feel that he was, in both body and soul, decades older than these two men, who had been his elders by a few years, when they'd served together. They were well dressed and in good health and spirits, where James felt wan and frail in comparison. How times had changed!

"When we heard about the Franklin Expedition's disappearance, we feared the worst for you, James, but were heartily glad to hear that Sir James Clark Ross was heading up the search. And here we are! It is good to see you alive and unharmed."

James questioned whether the term "unharmed" could truly be said of him, but he did not argue.

"It feels like an eternity," James confessed. "Being out of contact with the world take a toll on a man, but it is good to be home."

"I say," exclaimed Collin, "Do you remember the time we fell ill on the Euphrates expedition? That was a rough patch, wasn't it? I was convinced, at the time, that we wouldn't return."

James smiled and nodded, thinking that his experience in the Arctic had been  _ nothing _ like the virus they'd grappled with in Mesopotamia, from which they had recovered after a week's time. "Yes, indeed," he said, anyway.

"I still remember the day that you dove into the River Mersey to save that young chap… what was his name, Collin?" said Arthur.

"I'm hanged if I remember," admitted Collin. "What  _ was  _ his name, James?"

James shook his head sadly. "I never learned his name," he said, staring down at his hands. "I was presented with a Silver Cup for bravery for that stunt. It is inscribed with the details of my heroism, but only refers to him as 'a drowning man.' As if the act itself was of importance. What good is an act of heroism, if the very life of the man being saved doesn't matter?"

A silence fell around them, and when James looked up, he noticed that his friends were giving each other an awkward, questioning look. "Apologies, gentlemen," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm afraid I've been having a bit of trouble shaking the brown study of late. Please, carry on." 

After that, James said very little. What was there to say? He made the appropriate sounds and gestures when necessary, but had very little to contribute to the topics of recent political gossip, the evolving fashion styles of the day, or Mrs. Pettigrew's third husband's suspicious illness. Each new story served only to heighten his irritation with the utter meaninglessness of their existence. When the two fell into a bitter tirade over their cooks' deplorable lack of culinary imagination, he'd reached a boiling point.

"Well, I suppose you  _ must _ have a fresh and exotic dish at every meal. Perhaps you'd like to sample some of the lead-laced tin ready-meals on which we dined so lavishly on Erebus. I dare say that would challenge your...  _ imaginations _ !" 

Both men stared at him as if he had just threatened their lives with a pistol, but this only served to further stoke the fire burning in his chest. "No, indeed, perhaps I've gone too far. Surely, then, you'd fare better with a few scraps of seal blubber. It's bloody, but it's warm, and it fills the belly quite prettily! Agh!" he exclaimed, throwing up his hands in disgust. He stood to his feet.

"I am sorry, gentlemen. It was a mistake for me to come here today. It has been good to see you both again, but I must go." He turned and exited the room, and the house, leaving Arthur and Collin to stare at each other in stunned silence, wondering what they had done to enrage Fitzjames so severely.

James made his way to the carriage depot, striding briskly down the street with his fists balled and shoved into the pockets of his frock coat. He'd left in a hurry and forgotten his hat. Damn it. But he'd be buggered before he went back and got it. At that point, he only wanted to get back to the comfortable sanctuary of the flat, sit down by the fire, and have a pleasant talk with Francis. 

No. That wasn't right. Not Francis. Thomas. It was Thomas with whom he was lodging. 

But it was Francis he longed to talk to. 

Francis, with whom he felt comfortable just sitting silently, without need for inane chatter.

Francis, with whom he felt safe simply being  _ himself _ . 

He sighed. Perhaps he'd been too hard on his old friends. After all, had he himself not been exactly like them, before he'd gone on the expedition? When it came to such dire matters as prolonged subfreezing temperatures, lead poisoning, the ravaging effects of consumption and scurvy, and the madness that had taken hold of them all, to varying degrees in that eternal darkness, James knew inherently that these men could never understand. Unless one had lived through such atrocities, it was impossible to truly sympathize with the horror of them. 

When he returned to the flat, Thomas looked up from the article he was reading but said nothing. It could have been only James's fancy, but he felt that Thomas Blanky had sensed his sour mood, and had the grace to not press him. 

"Dinner?" James said, standing in the doorway.

"Thought ye'd never ask," Mr. Blanky said dryly, setting the paper aside and rising from his seat to join James for a meal in the pub downstairs. 

Over the course of the past week, James Fitzjames and Thomas Blanky had developed an implicit understanding that it was acceptable - even preferable - to sit together in shared silence than to prattle on about things for which neither of them gave a fig. They did, on occasion, speak of Francis, though James never felt quite comfortable with these chats. They also spoke of their health and their plans for the following weeks and months, but there was always a tacit agreement that silence was an acceptable response to any question, and they exercised their right to this luxury liberally. This evening was no different, and they took their meals in quiet reflection. It was not until they were pushing aside their empty plates that Thomas finally spoke.

"It's normal, ye know."

James frowned at him. " _ What _ is normal?"

"The change," Blanky replied with a shrug. "Things like what we've just come through...things we saw...they change a man, forever. And that's all right. It's only natural."

James smiled at him. How in the devil did this man always seem to know what was troubling him? "I suppose you're right," he said. "Doesn't make it any the less awkward, though."

"Nay," agreed Thomas. "It doesn't."

***

The morning they were to appear before the tribunal, James woke with his stomach in knots. He spent an hour moving in and out of the toilet, trying hard to pass whatever was ailing him. When he finally realized that it was his nerves making him sick, he submitted to Thomas's prescription of a glass of brandy. The alcohol helped take the edge off his frayed nerves, but his heart still beat more quickly than he liked, and he felt jumpy - constantly on edge. He was thankful that he wasn't alone. Thomas Blanky would probably never know just how much of a blessing he had been to James over these first days back. But, perhaps, one day, James could repay him for his kindness and his steadfast, tough-but-tender manner and presence.

The court martial itself would prove to be long and miserable. It was a warm autumn day, and the room, into which they were stuffed like tinned sardines, was stiflingly hot. James sat close to the front of the courtroom, and before the proceedings even began, he felt a bead of sweat meandering through his hair, rolling down his scalp to collect at his collar. Why could they not at least open a window? It was like being made to sit still and upright in a furnace.

Francis had already been present when Fitzjames arrived, looking polished and stately as always, in full uniform, clean shaven and with his hair neatly combed to the side. He looked up and smiled at James as he entered the room, and James returned the smile with a nod. He was too nervous to do more, and he prayed silently that he would not be made to sit beside Francis and make conversation. He needed a clear head, and thinking about Crozier's engagement would do nothing for his concentration.

Both captains stood charged with loss of property, loss of ship, and general disobedience, resulting in lives lost. James had to concede that he was probably guilty of all three. As it happened, they did not need to sit together, but were called up one at a time to be sworn in.

James stiffly repeated the words of the official standing opposite him, "I, James Fitzjames, Captain of HMS Erebus of the Queen's Royal Navy, do swear that I will duly administer justice, according to the articles and orders established…" and on it went, until he was merely repeating sounds, and not comprehending the words at all. What did it matter? They were only words. So  _ many  _ words. 

James was questioned first. The prosecutor asked him about Sir John Franklin's command, his actions, and his death. Next, he was questioned about Lt. Gore, and then about each of the other Erebus men who had been lost. He was questioned about the temperatures, the role of the extreme latitude as pertained to the navigational equipment, the faulty provisions, Erebus's bent propellor, and a host of other things that James Fitzjames would prefer not to have remembered at all. Finally, he was questioned about Francis Crozier. 

James did his very best to answer truthfully, still refusing to look at Francis, lest his composure be shattered. He made clear that the decision to plow ahead through the ice was made by Sir John, alone, and he was careful to state that Francis had warned them of the very things that eventually came to pass. He chose not to mention Crozier's battle with alcohol and depression, nor his plan to desert the ships and head up a rescue party on his own. In fact, he was generally careful to paint Francis Crozier in the most favorable light possible. He knew that Francis would do the same for him.

Next, Francis was called forward to give his own testimony. James finally allowed his gaze to fall on his fellow captain. To his relief, he found that Crozier looked far more stoic than he had the last time he'd seen him in Hyde Park, when Francis had worn that manic smile. 

Crozier was posed many of the same questions, as they pertained to his own ship, HMS Terror, and his men. He was also questioned about Sir John Franklin, though not to quite the extent that James had been, given James's close proximity to the expedition leader on Erebus. But once the similar line of questions had run its course, the prosecutor plunged into darker territory. 

"Captain Crozier, is it true that the men under your command attempted mutiny?"

James's heart seized. Of course, it had been Crozier's men who had behaved most perniciously. He should have known this would come up. Francis seemed to have grown as white as the sails of their ships. After collecting himself, he said, "Yes, a  _ very small  _ group of men who had been under my command did carry out a plot to overthrow my leadership, but I hardly think that--"

He was rudely interrupted by the prosecutor. "And is it further true that several of these same men turned to cannibalism in order to survive?" 

A series of gasps erupted throughout the courtroom, and James squirmed uncomfortably. If Francis had looked alarmed before, he looked positively apoplectic now. 

"At  _ no  _ time did I  _ ever  _ condone such a course of--"

The prosecutor glanced at the judge-advocate with a look of obviously feigned chagrin before interrupting again. "Captain Crozier, please answer the question. Did these mutinous men, or did they not, resort to cannibalism?"

Francis swallowed, and James could see his cravat rise and fall with the motion of his adam's apple. In that moment, he turned and looked directly at James, as if to plead for his help. James could see the fear in his eyes - could feel it like an icy finger dragged down his spine in that sweltering hot room. He felt that he would have thrown himself at the mercy of the court right there and then, if it would save his friend. But he knew that such an act would only result in further humiliation for the both of them, so he simply held Francis's gaze and gave him a subtle nod of encouragement. 

Francis licked his lips and turned back to the prosecutor. "Yes," he finally said. "But! They did so only  _ after _ they had seditiously abandoned their fellow shipmates, and  _ absolutely  _ without the order, acceptance, or even  _ knowledge,  _ at the time, of either Captain Fitzjames or myself!" 

A murmur of shocked indignation rose throughout the courtroom, only silenced with the hammer of the judge's gavel. 

Mercifully, the prosecution dismissed Francis after this last question, having gained the desired sensation it provided. James watched as Francis rose from the witness stand and, on shaky legs, made his way back to his seat. He wanted to go to him - to slide onto the bench beside him and wrap an arm around his shoulders - to let him know that he was not alone - that James would  _ never _ turn his back on him. But the crowd was dense, and even if James had been able to leave his own bench, there was no space anywhere near Francis, so he remained in his seat, his stomach roiling again, and prayed that he would not need to vomit.

Next, the tribunal called Thomas Blanky, Harry Goodsir, and some of the other officers to testify on their behalf. Hearing their testimonies went a long way toward untangling the knots in his gut, and James was moved nearly to tears by the warmth and support of his fellows. Every single one of them had a positive story to tell and a kind word regarding both Crozier and Fitzjames' captaincies. James, for his part, felt sure that he had done nothing even approaching being worthy of such high praise. Francis, on the other hand… Well, he hoped fervently that the Admiralty would take into consideration the tough love and devotion he had displayed to his men when they weighed this latest revelation against him.

_ More than God loves them _ , James had said about Francis. The sentiment had remained. Francis was a  _ great _ leader. A great  _ man _ , and he deserved none of the atrocities or betrayals that had befallen him. 

When, at last, the final witness had testified, the court was adjourned, with solemn warnings that every person present must remain silent concerning the details of the trial. There had been some brief talk of holding Francis Crozier in custody of the court, but this was quickly overturned as unnecessary and exorbitant. Before they were dismissed, an announcement was made. 

There was to be a grand ball, held in celebration of those men who had returned, and in honorable memory of those who had fallen. All officers of HMS Terror and Erebus were invited to attend, and were invited to bring a guest of their choosing. James's first thought was that he and Francis could simply attend together, thereby negating the need for either of them to search for a date. But the next instant, he remembered that Francis was now engaged, and would surely be attending with Sophia. He set his jaw and ground his teeth, hardly understanding why he was still so distressed about the situation. Very well, then, he would need to find a date, after all. 

He was already dreading it.


	10. The End is the Beginning is the End

_ Francis _

> _ Is it true that the men under your command attempted mutiny? _

These words remained in Crozier's mind long after the court adjourned. The answer, of course, was that they indeed had. Moreover, if Francis Crozier was completely honest with himself, he would be forced to admit that he'd been exceedingly lucky that his men had not  _ all _ abandoned him long before Hickey's band of misfits took the notion. How many times had he come dangerously close to reaching a level of resentment that would have earned him complete desertion, or worse, from his men, just as Thomas Blanky had warned him? He shuddered to think of it.

With the court martial in deliberation, Francis could only wait in a state of constant dread of what was to come. He had been so blinded by his elation over Sophia's acceptance of his proposal that he'd entered a sort of state of denial, thinking the Admiralty would simply brush his indiscretions under the rug, in light of their discovery of the passage. Granted, it was still possible that they would acquit him, but the alternatives were maddening. 

Immediately after the hearing, Francis had searched high and low for Fitzjames. He wanted to thank him for the unspoken encouragement he had conveyed during the trial, but more than that, he simply wanted to be in his presence. The truth of the matter was that he missed his friend, desperately. With Lady Jane having returned to London, Sophia had been occupied with her grieving aunt, so Francis had not been able to spend as much time with his new fiancee as he would have liked. He had thought of paying Thomas and James a visit at the inn, but whenever the idea sprang to mind, there was always something else to be done. 

Sir James Ross had been a gracious host, and Francis was infinitely grateful for his friendship and the gift of a place to lay his head, but it wasn't the same as being with Fitzjames, and he feared that he was becoming a burden to the Rosses, though Sir James would never dream of implying such a thing. Still, Francis took to spending most of his time alone in the guest suite, and made up his mind to look for lodging of his own, once he was fully assured that he would not be living out the remainder of his days in a city workhouse or prison. 

The days dragged on as if each one lasted a decade, boredom settling in and wrapping itself around him like a suffocating fog. The temperature had dropped, signaling the end of autumn and the start of the holiday season, but the only thing that kept his spirits up was the thought of Sophia, and their future together. It was true that she had been preoccupied of late, but that was to be expected, given the circumstances of Sir John's widow and their shared grief. Nevertheless, his mind wandered more and more repeatedly to the pleasures of a good stout shot of Irish whiskey.

Finally, there came a day when the drudgery was too much to bear. Francis descended the stairs, grabbing his overcoat and hat on his way to the door. James and Ann were occupied elsewhere, so he instructed the housekeeper to inform them that he would be out for the afternoon.

A short while later, Francis stood outside the inn where Thomas and James were staying. The smell of liquor wafted out the door with each customer's exit, and he felt his mouth water in desire. Somehow, he was able to ignore the voice that cajoled him to have "just one drink." He sucked in a deep, steadying breath, and walked quickly through the pub to the back stairwell, and up to the flat above. 

There was no sound from within, but he knocked on the door, hoping that they were quietly reading or otherwise occupied with some silent activity. He took a step back and waited, hands clasped behind his back, but there was no answer. Perhaps they were both out? He stepped forward and knocked again, more insistently this time. After a few moments, he heard a rustling from within, and after what felt like an eternity, the door opened just a crack.

"Ey? 'oo is it?" came a decidedly feminine voice from behind the door. Utterly confused, Francis peeked through the crack and saw a young woman, her hair piled on top of her head in something resembling a messy bun, eyes red from sleep. 

"Oh, I apologize. I thought…" Crozier took a step back, looked around to be sure there wasn't another door he had missed, but no. This was the door. "I was under the impression that my friends, Thomas and James, were staying here."

"Do I look like a Thomas or a James to you?" she asked, annoyed. "Nobody 'ere by those names. Jus' me." 

Francis apologized again, backing away from the door as panic welled in his chest. He hurried downstairs to find the innkeeper, locating him serving drinks behind the bar. 

"Please, the gentlemen who were staying in the rooms upstairs. Where are they?"

"Buggered if I know," he said, sliding a mug of beer to one of the customers at the bar. "Checked out yesterday. Di'nt say where they was goin', neither. 'Least they paid the tab." 

Francis felt himself deflate. They'd left? Just like that? Left without saying good-bye?

"Oy, what's y'er name?" the innkeeper asked, peering more closely at Francis.

"Crozier," he said, his voice rough with disappointment. "Francis Crozier."

"Ah, why di'nt ye say so before?" he said, turning toward the counter behind him and rummaging through a pile of papers. "Bloke left a note for ye. 'Ere it is!" He held the paper aloft in triumph before handing it to Francis, who grasped at it eagerly. He was irrationally hopeful that he would be greeted by James's flowing script, but it was Thomas's blocky printing that met his eyes. 

"Thank-you," Francis said to the innkeeper. 

"Get ye a drink?" the man asked. "On the 'ouse."

"No. Thank-you but no." He gave the man a half-hearted smile and turned to go before he could change his mind. 

Outside the pub, Francis found a bench and sat down to read the letter undisturbed.

> Dear Francis,
> 
> I apologize for leaving in such a hurry. Meant to stop by Sir James Ross's house  to say good-bye, but the time escaped me, and I just wasn't able. Received word that my youngest daughter is ill, and need to return home at once. With the court martial being out of the way, there's no need for me to stay on, close to London, so am making my way back to Yorkshire at once.
> 
> When this mess has all blown over, I hope you'll come and visit. 
> 
> And Francis, don't lose hope. You did what needed doing, out there on the ice. No matter what the Admiralty decides, your men will stand with you, as will I, always. 
> 
> Your friend,
> 
> Thomas

Francis folded the letter with a sigh and slipped it into his overcoat pocket. He hoped that Thomas's girl was alright, and that Thomas had arrived home safely by now. At least he knew that Thomas had thought of him before leaving. 

But what of Fitzjames?

Thomas Blanky's letter had said nothing about James, and he must have left at the same time. He knew that James had once had a reputation as a bit of a ladies' man, but he couldn't imagine… No. The woman in the room upstairs could not be anyone he knew. And besides, he was relatively sure the innkeeper had said that  _ they _ had checked out - both of them. Suddenly, Francis Crozier was overwhelmed with a sense of emptiness. 

Sophia had been somewhat aloof ever since the day of the hearing. They had exchanged letters by means of courier, but had not actually spent time in one another's presence since the night of the proposal, and he was fairly beside himself with eagerness to see her again. In his darkest moments, when the faces of his dead mean loomed before his mind's eye, the memory of that night with Sophia washed over him, and he gained strength and determination from the promise of another such encounter. When the siren's song of drink was almost too much to bear, he remembered Sophia - beautiful Sophia, naked by the fire. 

But as the days passed by without any invitation for him to call on her, he began to fret. What if she had changed her mind about their engagement? He'd sent her an invitation to join him at the Admiralty's ball, and she had accepted the invitation, but with little enthusiasm. Francis did his very best to push aside his misgivings, but that malicious voice in his head was always present, waiting for any moment of weakness to whisper poison into his ear, and with each passing day he sank deeper into his own private prison of gloom and despondency. 

***

The grand ballroom in the luxurious Brown's Hotel had been reserved for what the Admiralty were calling the "Nor'west Passage Victory Ball," and they had spared no expense on the event. The crystal chandeliers sent miniature rainbows dancing over every surface, reflecting off the golden gilt ceiling panels and the shiny-polished wood floor. Garlands of evergreen and sparkling tinsel were hung along the walls from window to window, and the music of piano-forte and stringed instruments filled the air with festive gaiety.

Sophia Cracroft was a vision of ethereal loveliness. She wore a beautiful gown with a bodice of palest green taffeta, fitted tightly to show off her slender waist, with fabric flowing in curtains draped over a full white skirt, which boasted row after row of delicate lace. She wore a short strand of white pearls around her neck which draped gracefully just over her collarbones. The sight of her bare neck and shoulders made Francis feel light headed, and despite his disciplined mind telling him not to, he couldn't help imagining the possibilities of what might happen after the ball was finished. 

With a hand at the small of her back, Francis escorted Sophia around the room, happily showing her off to everyone present. The darkness of the previous days seemed to slip away from him as Francis greeted those men who had served under him on the Expedition and were able to attend. Everyone looked happy - happier than he could remember seeing them. Everyone but Sophia, that was.

Lt. Little stepped out of the crowd with arms outstretched to Francis and the men embraced with joyful laughter. 

"Edward!" Francis exclaimed, stepping back from the hug. "Good God it is good to see you. And who might this be?"

Edward Little grinned somewhat sheepishly as he introduced his companion, a lovely Mildred Simpson. Francis, in turn, introduced Sophia, and they exchanged small talk for a few moments before being interrupted by other revelers. 

Several other officers were in attendance including Thomas Jopson, John Irving, John Weekes, among others, and Francis made it a point to speak with each of them, basking in the joy he felt at seeing their faces once more. He hadn't realized until then just how much he had missed seeing these men every day, and just the knowledge that they were alive and well was a balm to his soul, but there was one figure whose absence left a conspicuous vacuum.

Francis had not fully admitted it to himself, but he had been hoping that Fitzjames would make an appearance, and he was surprised by how disappointed he felt that his friend was nowhere to be found. 

"Francis, would it be horribly rude of me if I were to ask to sit down," Sophia whispered to him. "There are a few empty chairs just over there, by that window." 

Francis followed her gaze to the area in question. "We haven't had a dance yet," Francis protested, but Sophia gave him a baleful look, and he acquiesced. He never could tell her no. He escorted her over to the far wall where the row of chairs was, standing by and waiting for her to be seated before he sat down, himself. He was just about to compliment her once again on how lovely she looked that evening, when she suddenly uttered a little cry of surprise and brought a white gloved hand to her throat. 

"My goodness, is that you, Stephen?" she asked, pivoting in her chair to face the young man seated on the other side of her. 

"Miss Cracroft?" was the answer from the man whose name was, apparently, Stephen. "By Jove, it's been ages!"

"So it has," she answered, and Francis thought he detected the faintest hint of a blush rise on her cheeks. 

Crozier cast a withering gaze at the younger man, but then reeled in his jealousy long enough to thrust forward a hand. "Captain Francis Crozier," he said by way of introduction.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Stephen. "The very man of the hour!" He shook Crozier's hand with great enthusiasm. "And, am I to surmise that you and Miss Cracroft are…" he glanced back and forth between the two of them. 

"We are to be married, yes," said Francis, smiling broadly. "We have yet to choose a date, but the engagement has been established." He gave Sophia a playful nudge, and she smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. 

"Indeed," Sophia agreed. "So much to do, it's impossible to settle on a date when there is so much to be taken into account. After all, one must be certain that everything is absolutely perfect."

"I offer my congratulations to you both," said Stephen, nodding to Francis and then taking Sophia's hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles through the satin glove. 

"Thank-you," Francis said, though there was a distinct edge to his voice. "And you are…"

"Oh, I am so very sorry! My name is Stephen Johannes, third lieutenant, currently between commissions. Blasted half pay and all that." 

Francis nodded. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said. He did not mean it.

"I don't suppose I could steal your fiancee for a waltz?" Stephen asked Francis, one brow arched challengingly. "It would be such a tragedy if I were to waste this opportunity to get a dance with Miss Cracroft before she is to be married."

"Actually, Miss Cracroft was only just telling me that she didn't feel up to dancing at the--"

But Sophia cut him off. "Don't be silly, Francis. I mustn't be rude, after all. I would be honored to have a waltz, Stephen." 

Francis felt as though he'd been slapped in the face. He couldn't quite believe what had just happened, and he was too flabbergasted to even argue before he realized that Sophia and the young man were walking off to the dance floor, arm in arm. He watched them go, feeling anger bubbling in his stomach. It was bad enough being disrespected by the likes of Cornelius Hickey, but to be publicly humiliated by his own fiancee was almost more than he could bear. Refusing to simply sit there, alone, while his date danced with another man, Francis grumpily rose from his seat and began to scan the crowd for any of his men to whom he had not yet spoken. 

That was when he saw him.

James Fitzjames had just walked in the door, decked out from head to toe, in full dress uniform. The stiff gold and white collar encircled his neck, pearlescent in the flickering light and flanked by matching epaulettes, which made his shoulders look broader than Francis remembered them being. The medal he'd been awarded for his involvement in the Opium War was proudly affixed to his breast, his waist cinched with an embroidered gold belt, from which his ceremonial sword hung at his side. From hilt to tip, it fell parallel to the golden pinstripe which ran down his trouser leg, accentuating his lean, lanky physique. His hair had been trimmed and styled, and he looked every bit as pristine and regal as the day they'd first set sail for the Arctic. 

The sight of him fairly knocked the breath from Crozier's chest, and when James looked his way and raised a hand, flashing that brilliant grin of his, Francis thought his knees might buckle. It was the strangest, most unexpected thing he could remember ever feeling at the sight of another man, and it took him a few long moments to collect himself. Just when he'd managed to pull himself together enough to cross the room and greet him, a beautiful young woman stepped up beside James, slipping one willowy arm through his, and gazing up at him with unadulterated adoration. 

Just like that, the warm, golden thing that had blossomed in Crozier's chest instantly grew cold and withered. Of course, Fitzjames would not have come alone. Of  _ course  _ he wouldn't. Crozier's mind was still reeling when he suddenly realized that James was standing straight in front of him, smiling. 

"Francis!" he said, holding out a hand. 

"James…" he replied, still slightly dazed by the unexpected rush of emotion, but managing to reach out and clasp the offered hand. "I thought you'd… well, left… I went to the inn…" 

James looked momentarily confused, but then realization seemed to dawn on him and he cast his head back with a soft "Oooh…" sound, as if he'd only just remembered something important. "Didn't George tell you?"

Francis, feeling completely wrong-footed, wanted to ask who in the bloody Hell George was, and how he was supposed to have known to ask him anything, but James was already speaking again.

"Sorry, the innkeeper. Good man. Yes, when Thomas was called away, I moved directly into my own rented rooms, here in London. As a matter of fact, they're just down the road from here." 

Francis nodded, dumbstruck. 

"And where is the lovely Miss Cracroft?" James asked, casting his large brown eyes to and fro, apparently in search of Sophia. He must have located her, because his gaze held steady for a moment and then moved decisively back to Francis. For a fraction of a second, Francis thought he saw a look of complete and utter loathing cross over James's face. In an instant, however, it was gone, and James Fitzjames was all grace and smiles once again. 

"Francis, I'd like to introduce you to Miss Hinton, a dear friend of my family. She was gracious enough to do me the honor of accompanying me this evening." Then turning to the lady, he said, "And this is Captain Francis Crozier." 

Miss Hinton was a tall, slender creature with a long, elegant neck and piercing blue eyes. Her glossy chestnut hair was woven into a complicated braid that wound around the crown of her head, and a pair wispy ringlets loosely framing her face. She smiled sweetly at Francis and curtsied in greeting, casting her eyes downward in deference. 

"How do you do, Miss Hinton," Francis said, bowing in return.

Just then, Sophia stepped up beside Francis and placed a hand on his arm. She was slightly breathless with a rosy tint to her cheeks, but she looked happy, and for that, Francis was glad. 

"Sophia," he said, his voice lilting, "You know Commander Fitzjames, and this is Miss… Hinton? This is my fiancee, Miss Cracroft." 

The two women greeted one another cordially, but showed little interest in making small talk. 

"Francis, I am positively famished," Sophia said. "Would you mind terribly if we were to retire to the dining room?"

Francis found that he was mildly annoyed by this request. So far that evening, Sophia had pointedly refused to dance with him, then gone and danced with a complete stranger, and now, was pulling him away from the one person he'd longed to see and talk to for over a week. Still, it would have been highly inappropriate to refuse the lady refreshment, so he said, "Of course, Miss Cracroft." He turned to James with a somewhat apologetic look and said, "I'm afraid I must take my leave, but do come and find me again, later." 

Fitzjames gave him an unreadable look, but quickly covered it with his famous smile. "Yes, alright, Francis. I think Miss Hinton and I will have a dance before we have our meal." 

And with that, the two men parted ways, each with his own companion. Once in the dining room, Francis had to make a physical effort to remain cheerful. He collected a drink for each of them, and saw to it that their food would be served shortly. Retaking his seat beside Sophia, Francis said, "Are you enjoying the evening thus far?"

Sophia seemed preoccupied to the point of distraction. She was taking a sip of her rum punch, but her eyes were continuously scanning the crowd in the adjoining room. Francis turned to follow her gaze, but saw nothing of particular interest. "Sophia?"

She pulled her gaze back to Francis and forced a smile. "What? Oh, yes, very much so. Thankyou for inviting me to come with you." 

"Who else would you expect me to have invited?" he teased, lifting his glass in a silent toast. "There is no one else with whom I would care to share a dance, and I do hope you will do me the honor of a waltz after our meal." 

Sophia's expression turned sour, her graceful brows pinching inward. "Exactly what are you insinuating, Francis?" she asked. "I don't know what suspicions you may have manufactured, but I assure you that, whatever they may be, they are entirely false." 

"I meant no disrespect," Francis said, thrown off by her defensive tone. "I had not meant to insinuate anything, beyond my fervent desire to share a dance with you." 

Sophia's expression softened noticeably and she smiled at him. "Oh. Of course. Forgive me, Francis. I'm afraid that things have been terribly dreary of late. Auntie is beside herself with grief, and it has been difficult to maintain any sense of stability, let alone joy, in such a bleak atmosphere. Of course I will dance with you, Francis dear."

Crozier felt relieved by her reassurance. Of course, this explanation was perfectly rational, he decided. He just needed to have more patience with her. "I am all the more glad that you agreed to accompany me this evening, to alleviate the burden you are carrying. You are a loyal and caring niece to look after Lady Jane in her mourning." 

"Aunt Jane has been good to me," Sophia replied, gazing into her glass. "It is the least I can do to repay her hospitality and generosity."

"Perhaps we could arrange a gathering at the Franklin home, to lift her spirits. Having guests at the house would give lady Jane something to think about, and bring warmth and festivity to the house." Sophia gave a noncommittal shrug, still looking at her glass. "We could arrange a dinner party to announce our engagement," he suggested, glancing up as the server approached with a silver platter and cloche. He nodded to the man as the meal was uncovered. 

"If you wish," said Sophia, glancing up at him before directing her gaze to the food being presented. 

Noting her determination to maintain this petulant mood, but still determined to give her the benefit of the doubt, Francis let the subject drop and they finished their meal in relative silence, only making occasional remarks on the flavor of the food set before them and the decorations that had been so lovingly arranged for the event. Through it all, Sophia remained distant, rarely making eye contact, and frequently glancing around as if she was looking for someone or something. When they had finished eating, Francis once again requested a dance.

"Very well, Francis, if you insist," she finally said with an air of resignation, as if it was a particularly unpleasant chore that she would just assume get over with as quickly as possible. Francis was hurt by her demeanor, but still he stood, pulled out her seat for her, and escorted her back through the open passageway, into the ballroom. 

As they stepped onto the dance floor, Francis's gaze immediately fell on James Fitzjames. He was dancing -  _ of course he was _ \- with Miss Hinton -  _ did she even have a first name -  _ in the exact center of the dance floor -  _ where else? _ Until that moment, Francis Crozier had not thought it possible to be flamboyant while dancing a waltz, but somehow James had managed it. There was a small group of people gathered around just watching them.  _ Ridiculous _ . Francis scowled at them, though he was fairly certain James had not noticed his presence, let alone his disapproving glare. He turned to his own partner, bowing to her before taking her hand and placing the other at her waist. 

The dance itself felt awkward. Francis did his best to keep his eyes on Sophia, but she was constantly averting her gaze, and it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape the gravitational pull of the Fitzjames spectacle. By the time the song had ended, he was entirely ready to exit the dance floor. Sophia seemed to share this sentiment and wasted no time in making her retreat. As they left the dance floor, Francis threw a glance back over his shoulder and found that James was watching him go. Their eyes met only for an instant, and Francis thought he caught a glimmer of sadness in those dark eyes, before both turned away.

From that point, the evening only went downhill. Sophia's mood further deteriorated until, not thirty minutes later, she announced that she was feeling unwell. Francis, of course, offered to take her home, but she refused, insisting that this celebration was for him, and that he needed to stay. She was more than capable of finding her way home on her own. Francis was left with no choice but to allow her to go. 

He took a seat at the edge of the ballroom and watched the merrymakers dancing, chatting, drinking, and generally enjoying themselves. In all his time spent in the barren ice desert of the Arctic, Francis had never felt so alone as he did here, in the middle of this crowded, noisy room. He considered asking one of the other ladies to dance, but he had spoken the truth to Sophia earlier: he had no desire to dance with any other woman present. He wanted, more than anything else, to pull Fitzjames aside and share a few quiet moments talking with him, but James was very much engaged with his companion for the evening and, as far as Francis could tell, was having the time of his life. 

Finally, feeling utterly defeated and bereft of hope of any kind, Francis succumbed to the seductive call of the most flattering lover he'd ever known: whiskey. He told himself he would have just  _ one  _ drink. The familiar burn of the liquor as it slid down his throat sent shivers running up his spine, and he drained the glass in two swallows. Having been completely dry for many months, the alcohol went straight to his head, blunting the sharp sting of rejection and allowing him to think more rationally. 

He decided to have another drink. Just one more. It would be fine...

With four drinks down and a fifth in hand, Crozier considered Fitzjames and the woman he was with. Were they  _ involved? _ Was James courting her? He couldn't remember James ever talking about a woman in England when they'd been at sea, but then, he probably would not have, knowing Francis's tenuous situation with Sophia. 

Francis suddenly felt an inexplicable hatred for this  _ Miss Hinton _ . What sort of a name was that, anyway?  _ Hinton.  _ It probably wasn't even a real name! And what business did any woman have with a neck that long? He imagined her with a giraffe's head at the end of that neck and burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh, and so he did - loudly and freely. One of the bar keepers approached him, asking if he required assistance, but Francis was having none of that. He shooed the young man away, slamming his empty glass down on the counter and staggered into the ballroom once more. He scanned the crowd for James, but the room seemed to be tipping slightly, and he couldn't hold his focus very well. Fuzzy-edged shapes moved in and out of one another like water, and he felt his stomach lurch. Maybe he shouldn't have had that fifth glass of whiskey…

"James!" he shouted into the room, but his voice was hoarse, and the music was loud enough that no one seemed to hear him. He braced himself and stepped into the swarm of dancers, hopelessly crashing into one person after another. "Oh, pardon me! Excuse me," he said over and over again as he bounced around like a football tossed back and forth. 

After what felt like an hour of searching, Francis finally backed straight into James, jarring them both. James spun around, ready to reprimand whoever had so rudely collided with him, but his jaw went slack when he realized who it was. 

"Francis! What the devil are you…" 

"You!" Francis slurred. He wasn't sure how he was still standing. "Don't you take that tone with me! You and your...fancy medal and your fancy stories and your fancy dancing…" He paused for an inebriated giggle at the sound of the phrase "fancy dancing" before reverting to his angry voice. "You think you're sooo special, don't you! You and that...hair! And that...that...face!" He waved a hand to indicate the other man's appearance. 

By now, James had become acutely aware of Francis's state of intoxication, his expression shifting to one of concern, bordering on alarm. "Oh, don't give me that look, James," Francis said, pointing a finger in James's face. "Don't you  _ dare  _ feel sorry for me! I'm doing fine. I'm doing just... fine!" And with that, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier fell to the floor in a heap, unconscious.

***

Francis had been aware of the feeling of strong hands lifting him - supporting him, and then the cold night wind was slicing through his clothing, making him shiver. He was completely unaware of how he was moving or where he was going as the pull of oblivion dragged him back into a muddled darkness. The next thing he remembered was sitting on a sofa in someone's home. Someone was helping him take off his coat and boots, and the cold was gone. He tried to speak - to find out what had happened and where he was - who was helping him, but his tongue was too thick and his mouth was too dry, and the last thing he remembered was lying down on a cushion, being covered with a soft, thick blanket, and fading into a deep, deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you, as always, for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, which was slightly longer than previous posts. Things are beginning to come to a head for our boys, so stay tuned. It will only get better from here (I hope!!!) Please leave me your comments. They give me life! I appreciate every single one of you. xo


	11. Respite

######  _ James _

James Fitzjames slumped into the armchair opposite the sofa on which Francis Crozier was lying, passed out again and snoring loudly. He had done his best to get Crozier into his flat without further harm, the Irishman slumped against him, barely managing to remain upright as they hobbled down the road. Once inside, he had sat Francis on the couch and removed his frock coat and waistcoat, and pulled the boots from his feet, not daring to undress him any further than this. He'd propped his head up on a few pillows, in case he should be sick in the night. It might be the death of James's sofa, but at least Francis wouldn't aspirate in his sleep. Finally, he'd tucked him in with the softest blanket he could find, and now he sat, staring at his friend, still trying to wrap his mind around what in the world had happened that night.

The evening had gone about as well as he'd foreseen. There had been two separate times he had needed to make a quick exit to the washroom, telling Miss Hinton that he'd eaten something that did not agree with him. In reality, the purpose of these brief respites was to focus his mind, steady his breathing, and will his heart rate to slow. 

With the weather growing ever colder, James's nerves had become more and more frayed. This was something with which he had never in his life had to contend, and he neither understood it nor had he the faintest idea what to do to stop it happening. So, whenever he felt his pulse climbing and his breath begin to come in short gasps, he excused himself to a private place where he could be alone and calm himself. Unfortunately, these episodes seemed to be coming on more frequently, in direct proportion to the drop in temperature. He assumed this had something to do with his experience in the Arctic, but exactly how the two were related was a mystery to him.

So, James Fitzjames had done his very best to make up for his absences by acting the part he had played for most of his life: the life of the party. He'd danced with abandon and made certain he had a perpetual smile plastered on his face. He laughed a little more heartily than he might have needed to, and had told more of his infamous war stories than was typical, even for him. No one had guessed (at least as far as he could tell) that James was a broken man - damaged goods - a frail, trembling husk of the hero he'd once been. 

_ He loathed himself. _

But then Francis had stumbled right into him. Francis, who had been with his precious Sophia all evening, ever the loyal terrier, nipping along at her heels and constantly at her beck and call. Francis, who had basically blown him off immediately after having greeted him that evening. Francis…  _ who had been sober for so very long. _ What could have caused him to do such an idiotic thing?

"What have you done, Francis?" he breathed now, watching Francis's chest rise and fall beneath the covers. James was thankful that he lived so close, and he was able to bring Francis to his flat with relatively little difficulty. When he'd realized that Francis was drunk - drunker, in fact, than he had ever seen him onboard Terror - he'd been overcome with shock, but then grief. All this time, James had assumed that Francis was still riding the high of his engagement, but apparently things had not been quite so rosey as he'd presumed.

Finally convinced that Francis was sleeping soundly, and not in any danger of becoming mortally ill overnight, James hoisted himself up from the armchair and retired to his bedroom, where he readied himself for sleep. As he lay in bed, listening to the distant sound of Francis's steady snoring, he realized that he felt… better. Yes, he was worried for his friend, and yes, he was tired and sore and unsure of his future. But just knowing that Francis was in the next room gave him a feeling of calm that had eluded him, especially since moving into the flat by himself. And so, with a small smile on his lips, James pulled the covers up around his neck and slipped into slumber.

A crashing sound woke James from a dead sleep. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, or where the sound had come from, but he sprang up from bed and grabbed the pistol he kept on his bedside table. Creeping around the bed, toward the door, James reached out for the knob, but it was icy cold and his hand stuck to the brass knob as if it had been glued in place. Wrenching his hand free, James stared in horror at his palm, now slick with bright red blood from where the skin had been torn away, still stuck to the frozen doorknob. The door creaked slowly open, but it was not the hallway of his flat that James saw on the other side. It was the quarterdeck's passageway on board HMS Erebus. He glanced wildly back and forth, his heart thundering in his chest. How was this possible?

Another crash caused James to snap his head to the left, searching for the source of the noise. He cocked the pistol and held it out in front of him, clutching it with a faintly trembling hand. The oil lamps glowed dimly, casting only enough light for him to see a few feet ahead. He moved cautiously down the corridor, sensing that there was some grave danger - some unknowable horror - just around the corner. A gust of cold air whipped around him, making him blink. Were they under attack? Had there been a hole blown in the port bow?

James suddenly became aware of a low, guttural sound coming from directly behind him. His blood ran cold as he came to understand. Never in his life would James Fitzjames  _ ever _ forget that sound. It was like an enormous hound, snorting and pawing at the ground, then growling with unimaginable menace. Except, James knew this was no hound. It was something far worse. Slowly -  _ so very  _ slowly - James turned to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, the creature was there, towering over him, its huge teeth glistening in the lamp light like pearlescent daggers as it stared down at him with undiluted, seething malice. Its eyes glowed, and the corridor had become so cold that its breath came in puffs of rancid smelling vapor, hovering in the air around James's face. 

He stood stock still, staring at Tuunbaq, barely daring to breathe. He understood, in that moment, that the crash he'd heard must have been the sound of the creature tearing its way through the hull and onto the ship. Furthermore, he knew inherently what the creature wanted from him. It wanted two things, to be precise: his tongue, and his soul. 

James looked down at his hand which had held his pistol just a moment before. Now, however, it was not a gun he held, but the ivory-handled knife that had belonged to the old Eskimo shaman, and then to Lady Silence. His mind raced, trying to find a way out, but there was none. He had to do this. He had to save the men. If he would only surrender himself, the Tuunbaq would be merciful. It was the only way. Keeping his eyes fixed on the creature, James let out a pitiful whimper, opened his mouth as wide as he could and lifted the blade to his lips.

The next moment, James was screaming and thrashing like an animal in a snare. Tuunbaq was gone, but he was now ensconced in utter, suffocating darkness, and there was something wrapped around his arms and legs. He threw his head back and let out a desperate yowl and then,  _ finally,  _ he opened his eyes. 

The darkness remained, but was sliced in half by a moonbeam, which was streaming through the wide open window, along with a gust of frosty air. The room was so cold that he could see his breath, and as he came to his senses, James realized that it must have been the window being blown open that had caused the crash. With a groan, he buried his face in his hands. His stomach was tied in knots and his heart was still pounding frantically. He managed to calm his breathing enough that he was fairly confident he wouldn't pass out upon standing, then rose from the bed and crossed the room to close the enormous window. This time, he made sure it was securely latched. 

James was about to climb back into bed when he remembered that Francis Crozier was in the next room. Had he actually been screaming? Had he wakened Francis? He hoped not, considering how badly the man needed to sleep right now, but he decided he'd better go and check on his friend, just to be sure. He quietly opened the bedroom door and crept down the hallway to the sitting area and peeked around the corner. 

Francis Crozier was still sprawled over the couch, but he'd rolled onto his stomach, and one arm was dangling off the edge, his knuckles brushing the hardwood floor below. The blanket had slipped off of him and lay in a pile on the floor. As quietly as he could, James picked up the blanket and gently lay it over his sleeping friend. Francis twitched in his sleep and muttered something unintelligible, and James froze, holding his breath. But then Francis fell back into his rhythmic breathing, not quite snoring now that he was on his stomach. James carefully tucked the blanket around his shoulders, and then tiptoed back to his room.

######  _ Francis _

Francis woke gradually in the morning. He felt like his entire head had expanded to twice its size, his eyes swollen shut and crusted over, and there was a throbbing behind his temples which made him feel quite certain that he was about to die. When he finally managed to wipe the sleep from his eyes, he looked around the room, squinting against the morning sunlight. His first question was why someone was shining a spotlight directly onto him, but as he came to, the more pressing question was, "Where the bloody hell am I?"

"Hush, Francis. It's all right," came a familiar voice. Francis blinked, turning his head in the direction of the voice and wincing in renewed pain as he did so. The room seemed to be tilting, and he felt bile rise in his throat. 

"James?" he asked, his voice raspy. "Is that y-- Oh, God, I'm gonna be sick."

Francis heard footsteps hurriedlyl moving away from him and then back again. He tried to focus on  _ not _ throwing up all over the place. Then a hand rested gently on his shoulder and when he opened his eyes again, there was a bucket on the floor beside him, just in the nick of time, as he immediately leaned over the edge and heaved into the pail. Once he'd finished retching, he propped himself up on an elbow and dragged a sleeve across his mouth, looking up at James with bloodshot eyes. "I'm sorry," he croaked pitifully.

James shook his head, but Francis wasn't sure whether it was disbelief, disappointment, or something else behind those dark eyes of his. "Come on," he said, holding out a hand to Francis. "Let's get you cleaned up. I've already boiled some water."

With more gentleness than Francis had expected, James helped him up from the sofa and into an adjoining room which held a wash stand and chamber pot. 

"I'll just be in the next room," James said, leaving Francis to take care of his personal needs in private. 

Francis felt as though his bladder was going to burst, so the first thing he did was to alleviate that issue, sighing dramatically with relief. Next, he sat on the stool in front of the wash basin and stared into the small mirror hanging above it. He looked like death warmed over. His face was not just pale, but white as a sheet, and his eyes were bright red. There were dark half-moons under his eyes, and his cheeks looked shallowly sunken. What had he been thinking, having 4… no,  _ 5 glasses _ of whiskey? The thought of the alcohol made his heart ache, both in disgust and disappointment with himself, and with the overwhelming desire to have  _ more _ . He reached into the basin of warm water and splashed some on his face before dabbing at the various parts of his body with a towel. Once he was reasonably clean, he stood and made his way back to the other room where James Fitzjames stood with his back to Francis, fiddling with something over the fire.

"I am in your debt, James," Francis said. "I don't know how to repay your kindness, but right now I must get back…"

James turned at the sound of his voice, holding a steaming kettle in one hand. His gaze felt heavy on Francis, taking in the state of him and running all the way down his form, from head to toe. He seemed to be considering something, then spoke. 

"You do not need to go anywhere right now, Francis. Sit down. I've made you something."

Francis scowled, but obeyed. He had no strength to argue. "I don't have a change of clothes," he complained. "And Sir James Ross will be wondering where I am. I need to--"

James interrupted, holding up a hand in protest. "No. I've sent a message to Sir James, and have already had a return courier." He nodded toward the sofa where Francis had spent his night. "He sent a change of clothes for you. There. You aren't going anywhere."

Francis felt a defiant annoyance bubbling up inside him. "I'm not a child, James. I can do as I wish, and I wish to go home," he said petulantly.

James approached him with steely determination mixed with a simmering anger behind his eyes, and suddenly Francis was back on board Terror, telling James to get the hell off his ship. That night had ended in tragedy. He would not make the same mistake now. Shoulders slumping, he crossed the room and plopped himself down on the sofa beside the pile of clothes. 

"That's better," said James, once again retreating to the cupboard and pulling out a large tea cup. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Like someone's driven a tent spike through my head in the night," he said drying.

James poured the steaming liquid into the cup and handed it to Francis. "Drink it. It will help." 

Reluctantly, Francis took the cup and looked into it. It contained a pale, milky looking drink with a strong smell that nearly burned his nostrils. He cast a questioning glance up at James, who nodded decisively. He showed no sign of moving from the spot until Francis did as he was told.

"What is it?" Francis asked, gesturing toward the mug in his hand. "It smells like rancid turpentine."

James laughed. "It's good to know you are still indulging in melodrama," he said. "It's a Teh Halia. Now drink it."

"Am I meant to understand what the hell that is?" Francis asked, tipping the cup slightly to get a look at the bottom. There was a thin coating of... _ something _ at the base of the mug. He couldn't tell what it was, but it looked grainy. Reluctantly, he took a sip. Remarkably, it did not taste nearly as caustic as it had smelled, and he relaxed slightly as he took another sip. It actually wasn't half bad.

"Teh Halia," Fitzjames repeated, as if this would clear things up. "It's ginger tea, with lime juice and peppermint leaves. Sure fire cure for a hangover. I learned of it during my time in Singapore. Finish it. You'll feel better."

Francis continued to sip the tea and, by the time he had emptied the cup, he had to admit that the state of his stomach was much less volatile. His head still hurt, but this, too, was slowly beginning to lessen. 

"Would you like another cup?" James asked. 

"No, thank-you, James. Perhaps after a little while."

James nodded, apparently satisfied with this. He took the cup from Francis and disappeared into the other room for a moment, returning empty-handed. He took a seat in the armchair opposite Francis and watched him expectantly. Francis had the uneasy feeling that he'd unwittingly drank a witch's brew, and was about to sprout antlers or grow a tail at any moment. James ran a finger thoughtfully across his lips, then leaned forward in his seat. 

"Would you like to tell me just what you thought you were doing, drinking so much?" he finally said, fixing Francis with a penetrating stare.

Francis waved a hand dismissively, shifting in his seat. He had no desire to tell James that  _ he _ had been part of the reason he'd given in to the drink in the first place. James said nothing, but tilted his head slightly to one side and continued to watch him, waiting quietly. 

"It was a bad night. That's all," Francis finally said. 

James's brow furrowed. "I think that, after so many months sober, it would take more than one 'bad night' to make you turn back. At least I would  _ hope _ so," he said. "Have you forgotten what it was like? What you put your men through to rehabilitate you?"

Francis sighed. That last comment had struck him deeply. It had been a low blow, but he had absolutely deserved it. And anyway, this had been what he'd wanted, hadn't it? Someone who would sit with him and look him in the eye while relentlessly holding him to the standard set for him - the standard he, himself had set. Someone who knew him well enough to know for certain when he was spouting utter bullshit.  _ Someone he could trust. _

"Fine. Fine," he said, crossing his arms across his chest and sitting back on the sofa. He was having trouble meeting James's gaze, but he began speaking tentatively. "Things have been… strained, I suppose, between Sophia and myself." 

James's brow inched up his forehead. Obviously, he had not anticipated this response. 

"I don't know what… I mean… it's…  _ difficult _ for her, right now. After the loss of Sir John. She's staying with Lady Jane, you know, and it's been a struggle for her to care for her grieving aunt as well as being available to entertain a doting old fool like me. She's only human, after all. I've been expecting too much from her and…" He sighed, shaking his head. He knew how he sounded. He was making excuses for her. James remained silent, studying him.

"Anyway, last night, she was acting strangely. She didn't want to dance, but then… well, she didn't want to dance  _ with me _ . Let us say that."

James frowned. "What do you mean, Francis? You are engaged to be married. Surely…"

"I know. It didn't make any sense to me, either. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, but it was off-putting, to say the least. And then she left early, and I was on my own…"

"You should have spoken to me, Francis. You should have come to me before turning back to the spirits again."

Francis hung his head. "I should have, yes. I should have. But you were having such a splendid time with… whatever her name was. I didn't want to interrupt. So I just...reverted to type." When Francis looked up, he was horrified to see a grin tugging at James's lips. "What is the joke?" he demanded, irritated.

James wiped the smile from his lips. "You should have come to me," he simply said. "Next time…  _ any _ time you feel that you want to have a drink, you  _ come to me. _ I won't have you wasting all the sleepless nights that Thomas Jopson spent cleaning up your sick and changing your sheets when you'd pissed yourself in a withdrawal-induced delirium. I won't have you throwing your life away. Do you hear me?"

Francis held his gaze for a long moment, struggling to tell whether this was all a joke to him, but whatever had amused him a moment ago had now entirely vanished. All that he saw in James's face was somber, earnest concern and dedication. James was completely serious.

"Yes. Alright, James," he said. "Thank-you." 

"Good," James replied, finally offering him a reassuring smile.

***

After dressing in the clothes that Sir James had sent over, Francis considered suggesting once more that he go home, but James made no mention of the possibility, and Francis found that he really didn't want to leave. Neither of them had any previous commitments for the day, and Francis found that he was able to relax in James's presence, once the awkwardness of the morning had passed. As his headache subsided, he grew more jovial, and even had a bit to eat, along with another cup of the special tea James had made, which he'd decided he rather liked. 

The two of them passed the day together, sharing stories and reminiscing about the lighter moments of the expedition, though they were careful to skirt around the darker moments. Neither was ready to relive those moments. 

They played two games of chess (both of which James won) and then progressed to single dummy Whist, of which they played several hands. By the time the sun was setting, both men were fully at ease, actually laughing as they enjoyed one another's company. Francis couldn't remember feeling so relaxed and content since their return to England. 

"I truly ought to be getting back," Francis said, casting a rueful glance out the window at the street below. In truth, he didn't want to leave. It was raining and cold, and the thought of going out into the dreary night filled him with anguish. 

James seemed to have read his thoughts. He said, "You could stay the night here if you like. Return to the Ross residence in the morning." A pause. "I...would be glad of your company, truth be told."

That was all the encouragement Francis needed. "Well, if you insist, James," he said, pretending to sound unconvinced. 

After James had retired for the night, Francis stripped out of his clothes, down to his flannel drawers and bare chest. He slipped beneath the blanket on the sofa and lay his head on the pillow, feeling more light of heart than he had in weeks, and before long, he had passed into a tranquil sleep.

***

Francis was awakened in the middle of the night to a shout. No, not a shout. More like a strangled scream.

_ James!  _

Someone was killing him! Someone must have broken in while they slept. He jumped up from the couch, his heart pounding with fear and a growing resolve to slaughter any man who dared lay a finger on James Fitzjames. He burst through the bedroom door, but found the room empty, except for James, arms and legs flailing madly on the bed, screaming as if his chest had been sliced open.

"Shhh.. Shhh.. James, it's alright. You're alright. Shhh…" Francis whispered, cautiously stepping up to the bed with his hands raised in front of him to fend off the other man's thrashing limbs. He had no idea what to do, but the sound of those cries of terror shattered his heart anew with each repetition. He reached out to lay a hand on James's shoulder, but James lurched up in bed, frantically scrabbling with the blanket that had wrapped itself around his body. He seemed completely disoriented, chest heaving as if his lungs were unable to take in enough oxygen. He lunged out, knocking Francis out of the way just in time for him to lean over the bed and vomit into the wastepaper basket.

The emptying of James's stomach was what seemed to finally tug him fully back into consciousness. He glanced frantically around the room before his gaze fell on Francis. His eyes were wild with terror, and Francis was half afraid that he was having some sort of seizure. 

"Francis?" James said, his voice full of gravel, recognition finally dawning in his wide eyes. 

"Yes, it's me, James. It's Francis," he said. "I heard you… You were...  _ screaming _ , James. So I came in. I'm sorry if I startled you. You're alright now, are you?" 

James nodded, though his breath was still ragged. Francis could see a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his brow in the moonlight. "It was only a dream, James. Just a dream," he said. "Everything is fine."

"Yes… Yes, fine. Fine. I'm fine," James said, nodding vigorously as if to convince himself that it was the truth.

Francis wasn't sure what to do. He glanced at the bedroom door. "I'll just...be in the next room. Alright? I'll be right next door. Is that alright?"

"Yes. Fine… No." James shook his head, clearly still disoriented. "Wait," he said, and Francis froze in place. "Please, don't go." 

Francis slowly turned back to him and nodded. He perched on the edge of the bed and forced a smile.

"Francis…" James said hesitantly. "Would you think me an insufferable coward if I asked you to pass the remainder of the night in here, with me?" 

"Of course not," Francis said. "I could never think you a coward, James. I'd have thought you would know that by now." 

James nodded absently. He threw the covers back and gazed up at Francis with a plaintive look. Francis glanced from James to the empty space in the bed, then scooted farther in, pulling his legs up and under the blanket. It was not a large bed, but there was ample room for two bodies, if they didn't mind some physical contact. He felt a little awkward, as he was dressed only in his flannels, but propped a pillow behind him and leaned his back against the headboard.

Francis had never seen James in this state before. Now that he was comfortably seated, he could tell that James was actually trembling _ . _ He wondered what sort of hellish nightmare James must have had to cause him such misery, but he had not the heart to ask. James was lying on his side with his back to Francis, curled up into a ball with a pillow clutched tightly to his chest, like a child might cling to a beloved stuffed animal. He couldn't tell for sure from his angle, but Francis wondered whether he was crying, and his heart ached for him.

"James…" he whispered, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder. The trembling stilled, and Francis had the impression of a rabbit, terrified into paralysis. "James, come here," he said. "Roll over. That's right." 

James did as he was told, turning over to face Francis. "Rest your head in my lap," he said, taking the pillow from behind him and laying it across his thighs. He patted it in invitation. "Go on, James," he encouraged. 

Slowly, James lifted his head and placed it on the pillow in Francis lap. He released his hold on the pillow and, instead, stretched one arm over Francis's legs, leaning into him. Gradually, Francis felt him relax. Sitting there, with James's head in his lap, Francis realized he had no idea what to do with his hands, which hovered helplessly in the air in front of him. He shoved one hand behind his back, where the pillow had been, while the other hand gradually lowered until his fingers touched James's soft black hair. 

Francis had often wondered, in passing, what James's hair would feel like. He never dwelt on the thought, and never dared to actually touch it, but doing so now, once he had first made contact, felt natural and comforting. Gently, he slipped his fingertips into that hair, lightly rubbing James's scalp, and then stroking him like a giant cat. As he tenderly stroked his hair, Francis felt James's breathing calm and his muscles relax. He glanced down to find that his eyes were closed, his black lashes resting against his cheek bones. With the moonlight filtering through the window, he looked perfectly peaceful, like a fine china doll laying in his lap. The weight and warmth of him was soothing to Francis as well, and before he knew it, his own eyes were closing as well.

"We're home, James," he whispered. "Nothing can harm us now. We're home." 


	12. Awakening

######  _ James _

As morning dawned, James became slowly aware of another presence in his bed. It had been ages since he'd spent the night with anyone, and it took him a few moments to recollect the prior night's events. His cheek was pressed against Francis's chest, the thin layer of perspiration creating a suction against him. He was warm and comfortable, and he didn't really want to move, but the more alert he became, the more awkward he felt, so he finally pulled away and slipped out of bed, leaving Francis asleep there.

James made a stop at the wash basin and dressed quietly before slipping out to the other room to make himself a cup of tea. In his mind, he recounted all that had happened the night before. He remembered going to bed alone, and then having one of those horrible dreams. He vaguely remembered asking Francis to stay with him.  _ Had he really asked that?  _ It had seemed perfectly rational the night before, but now, in the bright light of day, the thought was embarrassing. What must Francis think of him, being afraid to sleep alone in the dark? He shook his head as the warmth of humiliation washed over him. And yet… it had felt  _ so good _ to hold onto Francis - to feel his fingers in his hair, lulling him back to sleep. And afterward, he had slept more soundly than he had since their return home.

James sighed as he poured the tea and sat down to sip it. His fits of anxiety were getting out of hand. That much was for certain. How to manage them...that was less clear. Yet there was no denying that he felt better with Francis close by. He wondered...maybe... _ just maybe… _

At that moment, Francis slinked into the sitting room, stretching and yawning like a drowsy cat. "Morning, James," he said, plopping down in the chair opposite him. "Sleep well?"

James was completely taken off guard by the sensation that shot through him at the sight of the other man, as if someone had plunged a hypodermic of adrenaline straight into his heart. He blinked, cleared his throat. 

"I mean after the nightmare, of course," Francis amended, sensing James's discomfort, but not understanding the reason for it. 

"I did, yes," James finally said, pulling himself together. What had gotten into him? "I appreciate your willingness to indulge me, Francis. I do apologize for putting you out. It couldn't have been a comfortable way to pass the night for you." 

Francis waved him off. "Ah, it wasn't so bad. Much like sleeping with an enormous cat in my lap, to be honest. I slept well enough, to be sure. Don't you fret over it. And anyway, I owed you a debt of gratitude after you set me right yesterday morning. That fancy tea drink you made really helped." 

"Teh Halia," James corrected absently. 

"Yes, right. Tey Halley-ah," Francis repeated, badly. "In any case, you mustn't worry. I was only glad that I'd been here for you. I'd hate to think of you waking up like that all alone." 

James turned his gaze away, unwilling to admit that, in fact, he woke in such a state more nights than not, of late. "I am thankful that you were here as well," he simply said. Then, changing the subject, "Would you care for a cup of tea? I've just brewed a pot. It isn't Teh Halia, but I believe you'll like it just the same."

"Yes, yes. That'd be grand," Crozier said, stretching again. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes were still a little red and puffy from sleep, like a child waking too early on Christmas morning. James wanted to smooth his hair back into place - to stroke it like Francis had stroked his the night before. But he did not do this. Instead, he returned to the fire and poured another cup of tea, then handed it to Francis. 

"I suppose you'll be wanting to return to the Rosses' this morning," he said rather glumly, staring into his tea cup. 

"I really should. I could do with a good bath and a change of clothes. Besides, I imagine you'll be well pleased to see the back of me."

James smiled and shook his head, then took another sip of tea, stalling for time, trying to organize his chaotic thoughts. Finally, summoning every ounce of nerve he could muster, James placed the tea cup on the side table and, leaning forward intently said, "I say, Francis, I don't suppose you'd consider boarding here, with me." 

Francis looked at him with an expression bordering on shock or alarm, and James instantly regretted having asked it. He waved a hand and said, "No, I suppose not. Silly idea, really. I only thought, since I have this whole flat to myself, and you haven't found a more permanent lodging situation, that perhaps you'd…well, that you might consider rooming together.” Once he’d begun vocalizing, he found that he was struggling to curb the steady stream of words. “There's a spare room, of course. It's filled with a lot of useless bric a brac at the moment, but it could be cleared out, and made into a proper bedroom for you, so you needn't sleep on the couch or share a room with me…"

James forced himself to take a breath, watching Francis with a fervent hope that he hadn't completely overstepped. Francis sat back in his chair, blinking, obviously surprised by the offer, but apparently considering it. He gazed out the window thoughtfully, working his jaw back and forth for a few moments before answering. 

"James, I'm very flattered that you would think of me, but I'm afraid you would grow tired of my company in record time if I were to stay here with you."

"What? Nonsense!" James protested, feeling a slight bolstering in his confidence, but Francis held up a hand and continued.

"No, James, let me finish. I value your friendship, more than you know. I don't think I would have survived the expedition if you hadn't been there. God only knows what I would have…” He trailed off, shaking his head, clearly unwilling to follow that chain of thought to its inevitable conclusion. “But just now… when I'm about to be married… I need to be thinking of beginning a new life with my bride, rather than moving further into bachelorhood."

James stared at him in disbelief. He felt a surge of some strong emotion well up inside him - anger? Panic? Betrayal… Before he could think better of it, he said, "Do you mean to tell me that you are still planning to carry on with the engagement, even after she humiliated you in front of everyone?"

Francis recoiled as if he'd been struck. "Of course I'm going to carry on with the engagement. Don’t be an utter fool, James," he said. 

James could tell at once that he'd gone too far. "I'm sorry, Francis. I only thought… I don't want to see you hurt by this… this…"

"This  _ what _ ?" Francis demanded. There was a fire behind his eyes now. 

James sighed. He was normally so good with words. How had this all come out so wrong? "Francis, I beg of you, don't be angry with me. I meant no offense. I only want you to be  _ certain  _ that this is what you want."

"I've never been so certain of anything in my life," he insisted, standing to his feet. "Perhaps  _ you _ have never known what it is to love someone with all your body, heart, and soul, but  _ I have. _ "

Now it was James's turn to recoil, though he didn’t feel as if he’s been struck. He felt that he’d been ripped in half and stuffed down the fire hole where Sir John still rested in the ice. Of  _ course _ he had loved before. Francis was being ridiculous, lashing out in his anger. But for some reason, his words had cut James deeper than any knife ever could, penetrating straight to his heart. 

"Francis, wait. Please," he said, but it was no use. Francis had gathered his clothes from the night before and was heading toward the door. 

"I thank you for your hospitality, and your kindness, but I must take my leave. Good-bye, James."

Before James could say or do anything more, Francis was gone.

***

######  _ Francis _

The following day, a messenger arrived at the home of Sir James Ross with a summons for Crozier to appear at the Admiralty Headquarters. He tried to remain calm, but inside, Francis was a bundle of frayed nerves, his thoughts and fears running rampant as he ran through every possible outcome of the hearing. Ever since the beginning of the court martial inquiry, he had gone about his life with the weight of dread constantly lodged in the pit of his stomach. Now, finally, he would discover what was to be his fate. 

Three hours later, dressed in full uniform, Francis Crozier arrived at the Admiralty courthouse. He took the marble stairs two at a time, breathing heavily by the time he'd reached the top floor. He was not the strapping young man he'd once been, as he was realizing to a greater degree with each passing day. He stepped into the elegantly decorated waiting room, and immediately came face to face with James Fitzjames. 

Francis felt his heart stutter, though he told himself it was only because he'd been startled. He had expected James to be here, after all, so his presence was not a surprise. Still, he felt a strange tightening in his chest when their eyes met, and he remembered their encounter from the previous day. 

"James…" he said, by way of greeting. 

"Hello, Francis," James replied, and there was something behind his voice...some depth of emotion there that Francis couldn't quite identify. He considered apologizing for storming out the day before, but he was still a little annoyed about James's comments. Sophia's rude behavior for one night did not negate Francis's determination to defend his fiancee, and if James had thought he would break the engagement over one evening's spoiled mood, he was completely deluded. 

Besides this, there was something that James did not know... 

The previous morning, Francis had awakened  _ before  _ James. He’d peered down at the sleeping man, gently patting his tousled hair, as he had the night before. James had shown no sign of stirring, and Francis had suddenly felt overwhelmed by curiosity, and the compulsion to touch his face. He'd known it was an odd thing - possibly even creepy, but he'd been unable to stop himself. With the tip of his index finger, he had lightly traced the crease that ran down the side of James’s face, then ran it gently across his lower lip. James had twitched then, and Francis had panicked, but he’d settled quickly and gone back to sleep. 

That had been the moment when, with a considerable amount of confusion and horror, Francis had realized that he had a powerful, insistent erection. It had been only with the greatest effort and determination that he had managed to calm his body, pretending to be asleep until James had awakened, but his mind had not stopped racing since then. 

_ This _ had been the true reason he had flatly denied James’s offer of lodging. Not that his proffered reason had been false. It was true enough, but he simply refused to think of the implications of what had happened - of what  _ he had done _ that morning, and he'd known without a doubt that moving in with James would have been a horrible idea. 

Francis was pulled from his revery by James's voice now, deep and sonorous as ever. "I'm sorry. For the things I said yesterday. I was out of line, and I apologize," he said. 

Francis nodded, forcing his mind back to the present, and smiled. "Then let us not speak of it again," he said. He extended a conciliatory hand, and James took it, giving him a firm handshake. Francis couldn't help noticing how soft James's hand was. His skin was smooth and clean, unlike Francis's own calloused fingers and palms. Realizing he'd held the hand a fraction of a second too long, he dropped it abruptly.

Just then, the enormous wooden doors swung open. The movement was somehow ominous, as if there was some hideous creature waiting for them on the other side, and they were walking to their doom. James and Francis exchanged an anxious glance and then walked, side-by-side, into the room. 

The members of the Admiralty were all present, seated around the huge conference table. Francis had never seen a more pretentious piece of furniture. He felt the weight of their judgmental gazes, bearing down on his shoulders with each step he took. He wondered whether he would ever be able to walk into this room with the confidence to hold his head high, as if he truly belonged here. He wondered whether Fitzjames felt the same way. He never would have believed it when they'd first met. James Fitzjames had a way of making himself at home in any circumstance. But knowing James as he did now, he was not so sure that his demeanor came as easily as it appeared.

Sir John Barrow greeted them - without standing, Francis noted. "Gentlemen. Thankyou for joining us here today. Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing to the two chairs at the end of the table.

Francis was glad to be seated. It felt like a slightly less vulnerable position than standing. He folded his hands on the table before him, forcing himself to keep his gaze steadily on the men at the other end. He waited expectantly. Fitzjames did the same.

"Captain Crozier, Captain Fitzjames, you know the charges which have been leveled against you," Barrow said. "Loss of Royal Navy property, Loss of Ships, and General Negligence, resulting in excessive loss of lives." Francis wondered briefly just how much loss of life would be considered  _ not  _ excessive. 

"During the course of the inquiry, new...  _ concerns...  _ arose. However, having reviewed the available evidence, as well as the testimonies of those officers and crewmen who served beneath you, we have deemed there to be no justification for such heinous accusations. Therefore, and in light of your admirable service in locating the Nor'west Passage, the Admiralty is prepared to grant you a full pardon, on all counts." 

Francis could barely believe his ears. He felt the air leave his lungs in one giant whoosh of breath, making him momentarily lightheaded. Instinctively, he turned to James with a huge grin, and found the expression mirrored on his friend's face.

"That being said," continued Barrow, interrupting their moment of exuberant joy. Of course there would be some catch. He knew it was too good to be true. "The Admiralty is, as yet, still undecided on whether your actions in the Arctic merit a knighthood. There is no doubt that you have acted admirably - even heroically. But the fact remains that you did sacrifice two of Her Majesty's vessels, and many lives were lost. Therefore, we will withhold our judgement on the matter of knighthood until we have had ample time to determine what should be the most appropriate course of action."

Francis breathed a sigh of relief. He could live without being knighted. And anyway, they hadn't said  _ no _ . Not yet. 

By the time they left the building together, Francis was so pleased with the outcome of the hearing that he'd completely forgotten about his bizarre thoughts regarding the previous day. He could hardly wait to tell Sophia the good news. He knew she would be as pleased as he was, and perhaps it would help cheer her from her recent melancholy. Reaching the street, the pair stopped and faced one another.

"I'd say this calls for celebration, wouldn't you, Francis?" James said. He was fairly beaming, and it did Francis's heart good to see him so happy. 

"Indeed it does!" Francis said. "But first, I must call on Sophia. She'll want to know the news." 

Immediately, Francis regretted saying this. James's expression, which had been so full of joy and hope moments ago, fell dramatically in an instant. Gone was the smile, replaced by a look Francis could only describe as pained. He recovered quickly, though. 

"Of course," he said, and offered a smile, which Francis could tell perfectly well was false. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him that resulted in no less than full-blown panic. Was it possible… Could it be possible that James was feeling… 

_ No. _ Francis refused to believe it. It was  _ not _ possible. He shoved the thought forcibly from his mind. 

"We'll meet again soon. I'll speak to Sir James Ross. Perhaps we could have you over for dinner one night," he said noncommittally. 

"Yes, that would be lovely," James said. "Well then, I'll take my leave. Do give my best regards to Miss Cracroft."

"I shall. Thankyou, James," Francis said, and turned in the direction of the Franklin home. 

***

The city residence, where Sophia was residing with her aunt, was very near the Admiralty's headquarters, so he was glad to walk. The sky overhead was darkening with thick cloud cover, and just as he reached the house, the first fine snowflakes had begun to fall. Francis realized that he should not have come without announcing his intention to pay a visit, but he'd been so close, and so eager to share his good news with her that he'd given it little thought. He stepped up to the door and lifted the knocker.

The young woman who answered the door was the same one who had greeted him at his last visit. What had Sophia said her name was? Marianne. Yes, that was it. 

"Are you expected?" she asked Francis, standing in the doorway to block his entry. 

"No. I beg your pardon. I was simply in the vicinity and wanted to share some important news with Miss Cracroft. Is she at home?"

"Yes, she's here, but I'm under orders to accept guests only if they're expected…"

Francis was becoming irritated. It was true that he had ignored the customary protocol for paying a social visit, but given that they were about to be married, he couldn't see how it would be of that much consequence. He was just about to tell Marianne exactly what she could do with her "orders," when Sophia appeared behind her.

"It's alright, Marianne. Thankyou," she said. Marianne, clearly relieved, scurried away. 

"Francis! What a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sophia asked. She still hadn't let Francis inside, and the snow was beginning to collect in his hair and on his shoulders.

"I have news to share with you," he said. "Might I... come inside?"

Sophia took a step back to allow him entry. "Of course. Apologies, Francis. It's only that I wasn't expecting you."

"So I've been told," he replied, his tone reflecting the growing irritation he felt. "I ought to have sent word ahead, but I was at the Admiralty headquarters, and thought I might drop in to share the news with you."

At the mention of the Admiralty, Sophia's demeanor shifted. Her dismissive air had turned to curiosity, and she invited Francis into the drawing room, where they could speak. The sight of the room made Francis tingle from head to toe as memories presented themselves to his mind. The fire was lit, just as it had been that night, though the room was much brighter, with daylight streaming through the curtains. He had to make a conscious effort to divert his thoughts before he ended up in an awkward predicament.

"This room holds some very fond memories, does it not?" Francis said with a playful grin. 

"Yes," said Sophia, though he could tell that she was not in the mood for reminiscing. 

They were sitting on the sofa, a short distance from the fireplace, and he noticed the blanket they had wrapped themselves in, neatly folded and draped over the back of it. He wondered if it had been laundered, or whether it still held the scent of their bodies. 

"Well? What is your news?" Sophia asked eagerly.

Francis reached over and took both her hands in his and said, "The Admiralty has granted Captain Fitzjames and myself a full pardon! We've been acquitted of all charges."

Francis had expected Sophia to be ecstatic at this revelation, or at least relieved. What he saw pass over her face instead was a series of expressions, each as unreadable as the next. When she finally spoke, she had slipped her hands free and turned away slightly. Francis felt his heart sink. 

"I had thought you would have been rewarded a knighthood for your discovery of the Passage," she said. 

"Oh, there is still a chance for that," Francis said, trying not to show the hurt he fell at her indifference. "They've not denied me a knighthood. They simply aren't prepared to make an announcement on the matter as yet." He purposely omitted the portion about the Admiralty's delay in making the actual  _ decision _ on the matter.

Sophia's face brightened. "Well, then, this  _ is  _ wonderful news," she said, turning back to him and reclaiming his hands. 

Francis was confused. He could barely keep up with her rapidly changing emotions, but at least she seemed happy now. However, he couldn't help feeling a little nervous. What if the Admiralty decided not to award him with a knighthood after all? Surely that wouldn't make a difference to Sophia…  _ Would it _ ? 

"I thought we might discuss the dinner party I mentioned, to announce our engagement," Francis said, eager to take advantage of her positive mood. This suggestion, however, seemed to dampen her spirits slightly. 

"Yes, of course," she said, but Francis felt that her tone indicated the desire to placate him, more than any excitement she might have felt about the idea itself. "I had thought, perhaps… a month or two from now?" 

Francis frowned. "Why so long? It's not as though we're planning the wedding itself. This would just be an announcement of our intent to marry. You do...still... _ want _ to marry me, don't you?" 

At this, Sophia softened. Her whole posture relaxed and she nodded. "Of course I do, Francis. Very well, if it is that important to you, we will make the announcement sooner. When did you have in mind?"

"I thought...perhaps...next week? Or the week following? It needn't be a large party."

Sophia arched a brow, turning over the idea in her mind. Francis knew perfectly well that they had ample help to quickly prepare for such a small event. In truth, they could most likely be ready to host such a dinner within a matter of days. Still, if the event was to be held at the Franklin residence - and it must be, since Francis had no residence of his own - then it was only fitting that Sophia be the one to dictate the details.

"Yes, I think we could manage it," she finally said. "Shall I make up the guest list, or would you like to?" 

"I thought we could do that together," Francis said.

Sophia smiled at him as though he was a small child asking if she could make a dog fly or bring a beloved rag doll to life. 

"One step at a time, Francis," she said patronizingly. "After all, we have the rest of our lives to do things together. Do not worry yourself over it. I shall make the guest list."

Francis nodded, unsure of what to say. He wasn't even sure of what to think or feel. Abruptly, Sophia stood to her feet. "Well, it has been wonderful to see you, Francis, but I must be getting back to Auntie," she said, and Francis understood that he was being dismissed. 

Sophia escorted him to the door. Before leaving, he turned to give her a kiss, but at the last moment she turned her face so that his lips brushed her cheek instead. 

"Good night, Francis," she said, and closed the door behind him, leaving Francis standing in the snow, wishing he had gone out to celebrate with James, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a troubling chapter to write, and I apologize for the angst. But don't lose hope. All with come together in the end. Promise! Thanks so much for reading. Please feel free to leave me your thoughts. I love hearing from you! xo


	13. The Picture of Sophia Gray-Croft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter, an interlude if you will, and a look into the mind of Sophia. Hope you enjoy! We'll be back to our boys next chapter! xo

#  The Picture of Sophia Gray-croft

######  _ Sophia _

Sophia Cracroft was  _ not _ a cold-hearted woman. Or, at least, this was what she told herself as she stood at the window in the darkened room, watching Francis outside her home. She saw him turn back and gaze up mournfully at the house, but she knew he could not see her; at this time of day, he would only see the reflection off the exterior of the window. After a few moments, he turned and made his way back up the street, on foot.

She shook her head. Why had the silly man not had the forethought to order a coach to take him back to Sir James's home, rather than trudging through the snow? Sometimes she did not understand Francis Crozier at all.

Sophia had stayed on with Lady Jane, all the while that the men were at sea, so she had not been  _ alone _ , strictly speaking. But she had been  _ lonely _ , nevertheless. Sophia was young and full of vitality. She longed for adventure and romance and, in short, all the things she did not have readily available. Before the expedition had set sail, she had enjoyed flirting with Francis. It had been thrilling to tease and toy with him - to watch his cheeks redden as he became more and more flustered by her flirtations. And Francis was a good man - strong, handsome, and rugged, with enough sexual desire to keep him wrapped tightly around her little finger. She'd never considered actually settling down with him, though… until he was gone.

The first several months after Sir John and Francis had embarked, Sophia had enjoyed a certain level of freedom. She had traveled with Lady Jane, attended several fashionable events, and just generally enjoyed the bustling atmosphere of London life. It was during this time that she had met Roger Winthrop, a high-born businessman with a luxury flat in London and a sprawling estate in the country. He was young, handsome, and  _ very wealthy _ . Sophia was smitten at once, and for a time it seemed that Roger had returned her affections. Lady Jane had given her hearty approval of such a match, and all seemed ideal, until Sophia learned that he was already engaged to be married to another woman.

Oh, how well she had played the part of the damsel in distress - the jilted lover - the maiden fair in need of a knight in shining armor. He'd been cruel and heartless with an innocent girl. He'd led her on - or at least, he had certainly never attempted to squelch her advances! Even after learning of his deceitfulness, she'd done her best to lure him away from his fiancee, plotting and scheming and cajoling, but he had then firmly rejected her, and eventually she had no choice but to accept his refusal. 

Sophia felt completely dejected and humiliated. She was sure that her heart had been shattered into tiny pieces. But then, she remembered Francis. Francis would never treat her as Roger had. Francis was always a gentleman - always kind and self-sacrificial. Francis  _ loved _ her. And it was then that she began to understand how poorly she had treated him, and how foolish she had been to toss him aside so callously. It was true that Francis was not the  _ ideal _ spouse, but what he wanted more than anything was to make her happy. And she had to admit that he  _ did _ make her happy. In fact, with him so far from home, Sophia could not, for the life of her, remember why she had refused him in the first place. 

Lady Jane's relentless yearning for her own husband - Sophia's uncle - was somewhat contagious. Sophia watched her aunt, admiring the steadfast, abiding love she had for Sir John, and longed for that sort of stability - a love that would stand the test of time. Perhaps it would not be a whirlwind of passionate romance, but would it not be better to have a sturdy commitment and a relationship built on the bedrock of mutual respect and tender affection? 

Each day that Francis was away, her conviction grew stronger. She was convinced that she had made a mistake in refusing Francis, and vowed that if he ever made it home, she would beg his forgiveness and agree to marry him at once. Indeed, the longer he was away, the more grandiose her memory of him became; by the time she'd received word that Francis was returning home, the image of him in her mind had grown a full three inches in stature, become younger by about ten years, and had completely lost the final remnants of his Irish accent. Moreover, he'd been knighted and was held in high esteem by everyone in the Admiralty, and was a very wealthy man. She couldn't believe how foolish she'd been to allow such a magnificent man to slip through her fingers, and her yearning for him grew until it was all she could think of.

The day of Francis' return, Sophia had waited at the docks with a fluttering heart, shivering against the cool breeze off the harbor, even though the weather was fair. When HMS Enterprise had finally been spotted, she felt a thrill rise inside her unlike anything she'd felt before, and she thought she would die if she didn't have Francis in her arms at once, but the moment she laid eyes on him, as he walked down the gangplank, something shifted inside her - a sort of tightening, like a building's foundation that has swollen and then contracted, leaving gaps behind. 

This was not the handsome, young, famous man she had been imagining. The man she saw now had, in fact, seemed to have  _ aged _ by ten years, at least. His cheeks were sunken and there was a haunted look in his eyes, as if he had seen what no man was ever meant to behold and maintain his sanity, and he walked with a barely discernible limp. There was a moment when Sophia Cracroft felt nothing but revulsion at the sight of him, but she pressed the feeling down. Surely, Francis was only weary from his journey. He would look different after he'd had a few nights' uninterrupted rest and settled back into civilized society.

Just like that, the thrill of excitement was back, and she was pushing her way through the crowd. And then he was there, in her arms, and he was the same old Francis she had known, albeit thinner and more weary.

That night, she had thought of nothing but Francis. She was confused about her feelings, and frustrated that she didn't feel  _ happier _ . Francis was back. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? And yet, something wasn't right. Remembering her thoughts about Lady Jane and her uncle's relationship, she decided to try not to get discouraged. She remembered how eager Francis had always been to do whatever she asked of him - the way he would go pink when she made suggestive remarks - the way she'd caught him looking at her body with undisguised longing when he thought no one was watching. 

Francis' knighthood was almost a certainty. What did it matter if he was not exactly the man she had remembered? He was still a man - a good man, and soon to be a wealthy man. And so, she had made up her mind to seduce him. Once they had slept together, she knew for certain that he would be hers. He was far too noble to make love to a woman and then abandon her. And if she did decide that Francis was not the one for her, she could simply break the engagement. After all, sexual indiscretion did not carry nearly the weight for a man as it did for a woman. He would be none the worse for wear, and she would have at least gained some pleasure from the encounter.

When Francis arrived, he had surprised her by proposing almost immediately. Still the ever-eager Francis Crozier, she noted. She realized she didn't have to go through with the seduction, since she'd already secured the engagement, but she did have physical needs of her own to sate. She'd been thinking of it for long enough that she would not be dissuaded, now. She  _ wanted _ him, and so she would have him.

The look on Francis' face when she began to unbutton her robe had been exquisite. The surprise, then confusion, but then… Oh, then… the pure, unadulterated lust that had settled over his expression - a pure, primal hunger. She knew in that moment that she could make Francis Crozier do whatever she wanted, and the realization made her feel strong and powerful. Excited. 

So they had made love by the fire. It had been… acceptable. She had seen Francis naked before, in the platypus pond. That encounter was still fresh in her mind. But actually making love to Francis had been different. He'd been tender and gentle with her, attentive, and cautious to a fault. She supposed that many women would have loved the attention he had lavished on her, but Sophia found herself, even at the moment of climax, wishing that he would be just a little... _ more.  _ More passionate. More carefree. More wild and rough and rugged. Still… she supposed that after they were married, she could educate him on the particulars of her sexual tastes. 

Then there had come the court-martial. Sophia had supposed that the captains would be acquitted without question, but the proceedings had played out differently. When the question of cannibalism was raised, Sophia felt her stomach lurch. Was it possible? Surely not… Then the court had adjourned without releasing a final verdict. Suddenly, it became clear to her that things were not to be as perfectly rosey as she had thought. Not only was Francis' knighthood (and, mostly likely, his fortune) in question, but there was the possibility that he would be publicly punished - humiliated, or even imprisoned - for his loss of the ships and members of his crew. And if word reached the public that there had been cannibalism on the expedition… he would be disgraced forever. A social pariah. 

She had kept her distance since then, waiting for the verdict of the court-martial before deciding what her next move would be. Surely, Francis would understand. He would be the first to want to spare her any pain or humiliation if he was found guilty. But she could not ignore his invitation to the Victory Ball. So, she had gone. Grudgingly. And that was where she had seen Stephen. 

Sophia had not seen Stephen Johannson for years, since they were barely more than children. They'd had a brief romantic entanglement one summer, but it never amounted to anything, and then he had joined the Royal Navy, and she never saw him again. Until that night. She'd felt horrible for the way she treated Francis, but she couldn't help herself wishing she was at the ball with Stephen instead of him. Francis' continual nagging about the engagement party had only made her more irritable, until she had finally been forced to make her escape, feigning illness just to get away from him. 

But now… with his name cleared by the Admiralty, and the prospect of knighthood back on the table, Francis was beginning to look like a better option again. Not only that, but since he'd returned to England, he had begun to put on a little of the weight he'd lost, and he'd regained the color in his cheeks and the gleam in his eye. Yes, she could see this through, she was sure. They were only having a rough patch. The trauma of the court-martial had been too much for her. But now that the court-martial was behind them, they could look to the future and begin rebuilding a life together.

Sophia let all these things drift through her mind, aimlessly twisting and mingling like a vapor on the breeze as she watched Francis trudge through the snow toward the carriage depot. Why did he have to be in such a hurry to announce their engagement? What was the rush? He'd asked for her hand and she'd given him her word. Surely, that ought to be enough. But, she supposed she must appease him, or risk losing him. So, with a sigh, she turned from the window and went to her writing desk to begin writing the guest list.


	14. The Keening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *************************!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!TRIGGER WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!************************************
> 
> This chapter contains a relatively graphic depiction of a violent accident, which results in the injury and death of a man and an animal. If you struggle with depictions of violence, particularly involving animals, then I advise you to stop reading after James and Francis leave the club, and resume reading at the beginning of the Francis POV section at the end. Please please please do not force yourself to read if you know you will be upset by it. I'd be glad to answer questions in the comments if you choose to skip this section.

######  _ James _

For all his talk of celebration, James Fitzjames had gone straight home after the meeting with the Admiralty. Francis's insistence upon seeing Miss Cracroft had instantly taken the wind from his sails. Suddenly, he wanted only to retreat to his flat and sit in front of the fire with a glass of brandy. He missed Thomas Blanky's company, more than he had anticipated when they'd first parted ways. The two men were very different, from different backgrounds, with different careers, and different social stations, but James had come to deeply respect Thomas Blanky's shrewd mind and the tender heart beneath the rough - often abrasive - exterior, and he missed the companionship that came of sharing rooms together. Even if they sat silently, reading a book, just having someone present was a comfort. But now, there was no one.

Once home, he shed his outer garments. The housekeeper had come in his absence, so there was already a fire blazing on the grate and a tray, with a decanter of brandy and a pair of cut glass tumblers. He sneered at the two glasses, taking the very existence of a second glass as a personal affront - a reminder that he was very much alone. He poured the brandy and flopped down into his favorite armchair, toed off his boots and stretched out his legs, warming his cold and tired feet by the fire. 

James let his head fall back against the chair and closed his eyes, casting his mind back over the events of the past couple days. He knew he ought to feel happy about Crozier's, and his acquittal, but he just couldn't muster the energy to be glad. He knew that it was ridiculous for him to slouch about, moping over Francis. After all, he had plenty of other friends right here in London! James Fitzjames was always the center of attention and the heart and soul of any social gathering!

Except... since he'd returned home, he had almost systematically offended, angered, or eschewed nearly every one of them. The relationships he'd counted as friendships before now felt hollow - superficial and insubstantial. He found it difficult to find common ground with anyone anymore, let alone a level of understanding that would generally constitute true  _ friendship. _ It was as if London itself, and all those who dwelt in it, had completely transformed beyond recognition while he was away. But that was untrue, he knew; it was  _ he  _ who had changed. 

By the warm glow of the fire, and the similar warmth of alcohol flowing through his veins, James slipped into a light slumber. Some time later, he awoke with a start. Disoriented, he cast his gaze around the room, looking for the cause of the interruption to his sleep. The room had darkened, lit only by the glowing fire, and outside, the snow had gained momentum. The appearance of those fat flakes falling from the sky and sticking to his window pane made him shudder. He did not like the snow anymore. 

Suddenly, there was a loud rapping at the door. James jumped, but then laughed at his own skittishness. He stood up and took long strides to the door, but with his hand on the knob, he felt a sudden pang of dread.  _ Who would be calling at this hour _ ? 

"Who's there?" he called through the door.

"It's Francis," came the reply.

James's heart leapt at the sound of Crozier's voice, and he threw open the door with joyful abandon. "Francis! I had not expected to see you again this evening," he said, but then he noted the solemn expression on his friend's face, and his own smile faded. He took a step back and stretched out a hand in a gesture for Francis to enter. 

The chill of winter still clung to Francis as he trudged inside. There were snowflakes gathered in his hair and on his shoulders, but he did not look as though he even noticed, much less cared. He said not a word, but walked straight into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa where he had slept, a few nights previous. 

"Won't you come in?" James said with more than a hint of sarcasm. He was not particularly in the mood for Francis's brooding melancholy, especially if it had anything to do with Miss Cracroft. He judged that it most certainly  _ did _ , since that was where he probably had just come from. He almost asked if Francis wanted a drink, but then checked himself. He walked into the room and sat down in the chair opposite Francis, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs and hands folded.

"Something troubles you," he said, more as a statement than a question. Francis still had not spoken.

Francis looked up at him suddenly, and something changed in his eyes, as if he'd been in a trance, and had only just noticed James was there. He gave that pitiful forced half-smile of his and shook his head. James was unsure whether he wanted to hug the man or box his ears. 

"Look here, Francis, what's going on?" he demanded.

"Am I a fool, James?" Francis asked, taking him quite off guard. 

"I'm not sure I know what y--"

Francis interrupted him, repeating himself with a staccato emphasis on each word. "Am - I - a - bloody - fool?"

"Of course not," said James, blinking at him. "Where is this coming from?"

Francis shook his head again and uttered a bitter laugh. "Nevermind," he said.

"No," James said. "No, Francis, you do not have the liberty to do that. You come in here, unannounced, looking as if someone's stolen your last shilling, tracking snow and slush across my carpet, asking cryptic, self deprecating questions and… Are you  _ drunk _ ?" He leaned forward to sniff Francis's breath, but could smell no trace of alcohol.

"You're right. I should not have come here," Francis said. He stood, and was about to head for the door, but James stood at the same time and shoved him back down on the sofa. 

"But you  _ did _ come here, and you are not leaving without giving me some kind of explanation."

Francis sighed heavily, leaning back on the sofa and giving James a cocky look, much like he had that night on Terror when James had come accusing him of stealing his liquor. His jaw jutted out and he tipped his head to the side, considering his next move. There was a moment when James was half certain Francis was going to stand up and punch him, like he had that night. But instead, Francis seemed to deflate before his eyes.

"I'm out of my element here, James," he finally said, his voice softer now. Contrite. "I belong on a ship, commanding men before the mast. I'm not fit for life on land any longer." 

James let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding until that moment. He sat down on the sofa beside Francis and placed a hand on his shoulder. "That is not true," he said, though he wasn't entirely certain of this. "If it is any consolation, I feel largely the same."

Francis gave him a quizzical look. He glanced at James's hand for just a moment, and James withdrew it, feeling suddenly awkward at the physical contact. Francis's frown deepened when the hand was removed, but it was too late. The move had been made, and for him to put his hand back on Francis's shoulder again now would be strange. Instead, he changed the subject.

"Do you have plans for the evening?" James asked, glancing at the clock. It was Seven O'Clock. The night was still young. "We could go over to The Rag and have a hot meal and a game of billiards. It would do us both good to get out and be among people, wouldn't you agree?"

Francis nodded hesitantly. "I am not a member…"

"Oh, that's all right. You can come as my guest. No need to worry," James assured him.

"Well, I suppose, I  _ could  _ do with a meal. Sir James doesn't expect me back until later."

James felt his spirits lift. This was just what he needed, and likely what Francis needed as well. "Splendid!" he said, standing to his feet. "Let me just get myself dressed, and we'll be off."

Francis offered a tentative smile and nodded. 

***

Thirty minutes later found the two men strolling side by side through the snow on their way to St. James Square, where the Army and Navy Club, affectionately known as "The Rag" to its members. James walked half-hunched, with his hands stuffed into his pockets and a thick muffler around his neck. The weather had reached nowhere near the depths of frigid temperatures they endured in the arctic, but he felt cold, nonetheless. The snow was falling fast and heavy, making it difficult to see very far ahead of them on the street. 

Upon arrival, they stepped inside and stomped their feet to shake the snow from their garments. There was a fire blazing in the small entryway, giving the room a warm, welcoming aura. The doorman stepped up and took their coats, and the pair of them warmed their fingers and toes by the fire before heading inside the club, itself. 

"What do you think, Francis? Shall we have a bite to eat, or do you fancy a game of billiards first?" He glanced around them and added, "I dare say we could find partners for a game of Whist, if you prefer."

But Francis had frozen in the entryway to the lobby, staring wide eyed and mouth agape, in wonder at the splendor that surrounded them. They were in a grand atrium, fully four stories tall, with arching gilded ceilings which peaked at a large, elegant sky light, darkened now, and covered with snow. Marble stairways encircled the open foyer, draped in velveteen carpet and hemmed in with brass balustrades, spilling onto marble tile floors on each level. The walls were hung with enormous masterpieces of oil on canvas, and buttressed all around with elegant marble columns. 

James remembered that Francis had likely never been inside the club, and he watched his friend with interest as he took it all in. There was wonder in his expression, but something else, as well, and James felt quite sure that, in that moment, they shared the same sentiment toward all the opulence that surrounded them: so much waste. So much vanity. So much arrogance. And in the end, none of it mattered.

"Francis?" he coaxed, stepping up beside Crozier and lightly brushing his gloved fingers down the length of his arm. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Yes, perfectly alright," Francis said. "I'd be grateful for some hot food after that walk in the cold. The billiards will wait, yes?"

"Hear, hear," agreed James, latching onto the cheerful shift in mood. "The dining room is this way. Let's go and find a table, shall we?"

The dining room was elegantly appointed, though understated in comparison to the atrium through which they had arrived. This room was dimly lit, with a low ceiling and lined with plush red carpeting throughout. Fine wood paneling covered three walls, with the fourth consisting of large plate glass windows displaying a view over St. James Square. Still more enormous oil paintings of notable military officials were hung at intervals, each with its own lamp to spotlight its magnificence. James watched as Francis took note of each portrait, including the prestigious trustees of the club, as well as Lord Nelson, himself at the Battle of Trafalgar, and many others. It always made him feel slightly self-conscious, having the likenesses of such prestigious Royal Army and Navy officers keeping their gaze fixed on all who entered the room. Their lifeless eyes seemed to take his measure and always found him wanting. He wondered whether Francis had a similar feeling. 

They found a vacant table along one wall, about midway into the room, and took their seats. James, not wishing to spend his meal looking at the snow, sat with his back to the windows. Francis seemed to be still rather in awe of his surroundings, glancing around them at each of the paintings, the other tables, all decked with red and white table linens and fine leather-upholstered chairs. Simple chandeliers hung from the gold trimmed, gilded tray ceiling. Everything in the room smacked of prestige, wealth, and power. 

"This is quite a place," Francis said, turning his gaze back to James. "I knew it was a prestigious club, but I had not expected it to be so…"

"Pretentious?" James offered with a small smirk. "Ostentatious? Flamboyant?"

"I was going to say magnificent," Francis said, but then they both laughed. 

"Well, what sounds appealing to you?" James asked. "They have a very fine roast capon. Or at least, they did when I was last here. As I recall, they had a rather good cut of mutton as well."

"I was thinking of a hot bowl of soup to start, and then perhaps the lamb."

"Excellent choice," James agreed, giving Francis a smile. He'd been right about coming here - the change of scenery was just what they had both needed to pull them from their individual slumps. 

Just then, a man approached the table. Assuming it to be one of the serving staff, James looked up, ready to place his order, but instead was met with a familiar face. It took him a moment to place it, but then he broke into a smile and stood to his feet to shake the man's hand. 

"George! How the devil have you been? It's been ages," he said, clapping the man on the shoulder. 

"I should say it's been…" the man paused to consider, then said, "Six? Seven years? Since the treaty of Nanking. I say, it's good to see you, Jim."

Suddenly remembering that there was another person at the table, James turned to Crozier, who was studying George with a shrewd gaze. "Francis, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine," James said. "This is Mister George R Bertram. We served together on HMS Cornwallis, in…"

"In  Chinkiang. Yes, I've heard the story on more than one occasion, James," Franics said. "Francis Crozier," he said to the newcomer, shaking his hand. He was obviously not pleased with the arrival of another person at their table, but James could not simply turn him away. Francis would just have to manage. James gave him a warning glance and then turned back to George. 

"George, you must join us for dinner. Francis and I were just about to order." 

"Oh, I couldn't impose on your meal," said George.

"Nonsense. Sit," James protested, to which George finally surrendered. 

The server arrived then, and as George questioned him about the daily fare, James and Francis exchanged glances across the table - Francis gesturing to get rid of the third party, and James sternly refusing. They managed to break off their silent argument before George had finished ordering and turned back to them.

"So, Jim, word has it that you went off and got yourself frozen into the ice! That must have been exciting," said George. 

James grimaced. He should have foreseen that this would immediately become the topic of conversation, but somehow he had not.

"I suppose that's one word for it," James conceded. "But what about you, George? I dare say you know much more about my doings of late than I, of yours. Have you had any commissions of your own? Any promotions?"

The conversation continued, and the longer they talked, the more agitated Francis seemed to become. Their food had arrived, but he seemed to be pushing it around his plate more than into his mouth, and there was a deep crease between his brows. At this point, there was a part of James that felt a little guilty for inviting George to join them. He'd forgotten how much of a chatterbox the other man was, and poor Francis had been largely left out of the dialogue. However, there was another part of James - a deeper, darker part - that was taking immense pleasure in what he perceived to be pure jealousy emanating from Francis. He knew it was petty, but Francis had been guilty of making James feel second best ever since they'd returned. What would it hurt him to know what that felt like, if only for one night? 

Still, James was not a cruel man, by any means. He decided that, once the meal was finished, they would make their excuses and head back to his flat. They could just as easily have another game of chess or cards at home as they could here, after all, and then he could devote his full attention to Francis. 

When they had finished, all three men stood, and George stepped forward to give James a hug. He could feel Francis's eyes on him as they embraced. 

"It's been such a joy to catch up with you. What luck that we happened to run into each other," George said. "Do look me up one day, Jim. I'd be very glad to visit with you again, when we have more time."

"Of course," said James, who had very little intention of ever doing so. He cast a sidelong glance at Francis, who was glaring at George as if he'd just urinated on the rug. 

"Pleasure meeting you," Francis said, though it was abundantly obvious to James that he did not mean it in the least.

"Mutual," said George, mercifully oblivious to the hostility with which he was being regarded.

Once George had walked away, James lowered his voice and said, "Good God, Francis, did you have to be so nasty to him?"

Francis raised his eyebrows. "Nasty? You thought  _ that _ was nasty? ... _ JIM?" _

James couldn't help it. He had to laugh. "I've not always been a Captain, Francis. Once upon a time, I was just another sailor, and yes, in my younger years, my friends used to call me Jim."

Crozier rolled his eyes. "I think I'll pass on that game of Billiards tonight,  _ Jim _ ."

"Don't be cross," James said, reaching over to pat Francis's hand, and when their eyes met, there was contrition in James's gaze. "I should not have invited him to stay. I apologize. I had forgotten just how talkative George was."

Francis sighed, but nodded. "Fine. But all the same, I think we'd better head back. The storm is not letting up, and if we stay much longer, we'll be in over our heads in the snow."

"I agree," James said with a small shudder. 

They made their way down the marble stairs, through the grand atrium, and into the smaller coat room, where they dressed in their overcoats, pulled on their gloves, and wrapped themselves tightly in their mufflers. The snow had steadily fallen, thick and wet, and the ground was slick. It was difficult to differentiate between the road and the pavement. James extended his arm to Francis, and they began walking together, arm-in-arm, their feet behaving like tiny snow plows with each step. 

They had only made it about a block when the first of a string of several separate events occurred. The first was that a man, bundled up against the cold, staggered out into the road at the intersection of Pall Mall and St. James Street. James thought that, judging by the way he moved, the man might be drunk. In the middle of the street, he lost his footing, slipping on the ice beneath the fresh snow, and falling on his backside. Then, several things occurred at once, far too quickly for James to have even considered doing anything to prevent them.

As the drunken man skidded and struggled, flailing about in an effort to get back onto his feet, a hansom cab came down the road from the north. The snow was still falling thickly, and by the time the cabby had realized that there was someone in the road, it was too late to stop in time. In that same instant, a second cab had materialized from the west, approaching the same intersection. Suddenly becoming aware of the other cab, and not even noticing the man in the road, the driver tugged hard on the reins, but the horses were spooked by the shapes suddenly emerging from the heavy snow, and the cabby lost control of his carriage. 

The horses reared, trying to avoid the man lying in the road, but tethered to the cart, and with the slick snow beneath their hooves, they were unable to dodge him. Their hooves came down heavily on the poor man in the street with a sickening wet crunch, and a moment later, the two coaches had collided, the shaft of the east-going cab having broken free and impaling one of the horses pulling the other carriage, like a Medieval jousting lance. 

The commotion was deafening. Men and women were screaming, others were shouting for help, shoving through the crowd that had quickly begun to form. Wood shattered, horses stamped the ground, snorting and  _ screaming  _ in terror and pain. The scene seemed to assault James, from without and within, overwhelming all his senses, and suddenly, he was back there in the Arctic on the day Sir John died. The men screaming, limbs lying, disembodied, in the snow, and the blood. _ The blood _ … vibrant, indecent red, smeared over the white snow and ice. Bright flashes of lightning exploded behind James's eyes, then washed in red. So much red. 

The injured horse lay on its side, with the wooden shaft jutting out of its flank. It was still alive, kicking futilely but otherwise not making a sound. Somehow, the silence was more deafening than the shrill shrieks of the other horses. Its eyes were wild, nostrils flared, and dark red blood puddled beneath it, smearing over the snow as it flailed, like some hideous, demonic snow angel. The drunken man was obviously dead, his body crushed, half buried under the fallen horse, his legs jutting out from beneath at odd, _wrong_ angles. The cabby whose whose horse had been impaled stumbled from his carriage, pulling something from his pocket that glimmered vaguely in the lamp light. A pistol. He was going to put his poor horse out of its misery, James realized. 

He didn't want to see it. Didn't want to watch, but he was paralyzed, his eyes seemingly frozen wide open, blood rushing in his ears until he could hear nothing but the frenzied pounding of his own heart. His breath came rapid and shallow, and he wasn't getting enough oxygen. The air around him was ringing,  _ ringing _ , louder and louder until it was a deafening screech inside his head, and he just wanted it to stop. It had to stop, or else his head and chest were going to explode.

Then, through the deafening chaos, through the desolation of white and the horror of red, James felt a hand on his shoulder. Still, he could not tear his gaze away. He heard someone calling his name, as if from a great distance, barely breaching the shrill ringing in his ears. It grew louder, and he felt the hands on his shoulders shake him, hard. He tore his eyes away from the gruesome scene, finally blinking to clear the blinding white light, and there was Francis, directly in front of him. His mouth was moving, and as James focused on the shape of his lips as he spoke, he heard the gun fire.

James jolted again at the sound, but now Francis was closer still, bundling James in his arms and physically turning him away from the crash. "Come on, James. Come on. I need you with me here. I need you to stay here with me, James. Do you hear me? That's an order! Listen to my voice. We're getting out of here. Stay with me. Stay with me, James. Don't you dare check out on me."

And finally, after they'd walked another two blocks, James finally began to come back to his senses. It wasn't until they had entered his flat that he realized he'd been sobbing.

***

######  _ Francis _

Once they were back inside Fitzjames's flat, Francis finally acknowledged his own horror at what they'd just witnessed. He was badly shaken, though not to the degree that James was. In the moment, his focus had been solely on James, who had obviously gone into some sort of shock. Now, he guided James to the sofa and helped him to sit. He was shivering, arms wrapped tightly around his chest, tears falling down his cheeks and gathering in his muffler. 

Francis didn't know what to do. He considered making tea, but there was no time to boil water. He needed something  _ now _ . Looking around the room, he spotted the tray that held a decanter and two glasses, one of which still have a finger of amber liquid in it. He hurried over and poured another two fingers into the glass and returned to James, taking a seat beside him. 

"Here, James. Drink this," he said, speaking more softly, now that they were away from the horrible cacophony. He held the glass to James's lips, and James cast a quick, frenzied glance his direction, without turning his head. But, he pursed his lips around the rim of the glass and took a quick, short sip. Then another, before turning away. 

The shaking was subsiding now, and Francis realized that he was also trembling slightly. He was a little surprised to realize that the primary emotion he was experiencing at that moment was anger. He was  _ angry _ at the man for having been drunk. He was  _ angry _ at the snow, for clouding all their vision. He was  _ angry  _ at the cabbies for not being more cautious in the foul weather. But most of all, he was  _ angry _ that they had been forced to endure those years of unthinkable suffering in the ice, because he knew that it was this memory that had driven James to the state in which he now found himself. 

The rich, heavy aroma of the brandy tickled his nose, and he did not have the strength to fight. He took a long swig from the glass before offering it to James once more, and they alternated drinking until the glass was empty, and James had relaxed to the point that Francis was able to remove his overcoat and muffler. The last thing he needed was to overheat, after being in the cold. 

"All right, James?" he asked, gazing at his friend. He remembered the night he'd stayed here, when James had wakened from some horrific nightmare, and he wondered just how tormented his friend had been since their return. His instinct told him that James had struggled more with anxiety than he had previously let on, and his heart ached for him.

James finally turned his head to look Francis full in the face. His eyes were still unnaturally wide, but that wild, half crazed look had gone, and he was no longer sobbing, nor shaking from head to toe. He nodded. "More brandy. Please," he said, his voice raspy. 

"Of course," Francis said, jumping up to get another glass. He was beginning to feel the effects of the drink, too, and it felt good. He poured another three fingers and returned to the sofa, taking a long sip before handing the glass to James. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said, watching James sip at the brandy. "I didn't realize… I hadn't known…" 

James looked at him again, his dark hair falling around his face. His cheeks were still pink from the cold, and his lips were parted, quivering ever so slightly. "I… That's not… It's never been that bad before," he said. "I thought… I was back there… I couldn't stop it. Francis, I couldn't save him." A single tear welled in his eye, cresting his black lashes and spilling down his cheek. 

"Of course you couldn't, James," Francis said. "It was never your responsibility to save anyone." As he spoke, he reached out to gently wipe the tear from James's face. His skin was cold and clammy, despite its rosy hue. "You mustn't blame yourself, James. Not for what happened then, and certainly not for what happened here tonight."

James looked down at the glass in his hands again before taking another drink and then handing it to Francis, who also drank. There was warmth blooming in his chest, radiating to his limbs and his face. He felt comfortable and relaxed - just pleasantly buzzed. 

"If you hadn't been there, Francis… I don't think… I don't know…"

Francis, without thinking, lifted a finger to James's lips, halting his speech, and their eyes met. "I will always be there for you," he said, gently tracing the line of James's lips with his fingertip. Why was he so fascinated with those lips? They were barely lips at all, now that he thought about it. And why had he never thought about it before? More to the point, why  _ was  _ he thinking about it  _ now? _ He was meant to be comforting his friend after a traumatic event, but wasn't that exactly what he  _ was  _ doing? 

James let his eyelids fall closed and his lips fall open with a sigh, and Francis had the impulse to slip his finger all the way into the other man's mouth. He had no time to act on this, though, before James's lips had closed around his finger, sucking gently and then kissing the tip. Francis felt a rush of some electrical energy shooting from his head, straight to his groin. Slowly, he pulled his fingers away from James's lips and slipped them into his hair, brushing the black fringe from his face and cradling the side of his head in his open palm. James's eyes opened and fixed on Francis's, and the last vestige of panic had gone, replaced now by what Francis could only call  _ hunger _ . 

"James…" he whispered, without knowing what he wanted to say. James lifted a hand to curl his long fingers around Francis's wrist, the pad of his thumb stroking the silky skin along the radial vein, his eyes never leaving Francis's. The moment seemed to stretch on, both men unwilling to turn away, both unable to keep from leaning forward. Francis could see every fiber that made up James's irises, surprised by the array of colors hidden within the obvious brown hue. He glanced down at James's lips and saw the tip of his pink tongue sweep over them. Involuntarily, he did the same. 

And then, their lips were pressed together, and something was exploding in Francis's chest. A stream of effervescence burst over him, alternating hot and cold, making him shiver and groan into James's mouth as his body simultaneously relaxed and awoke, pressing itself against the other man. His fingers curled in James's hair, cradling the back of his head and holding him in place. James had one hand in Francis's hair as well, resting at the nape of his neck with no discernible effort to pull away. 

His mind raced. The heat of his body - of James's body - the pressure of lips against lips, fists in hair, hearts pounding. He was vaguely aware of James pushing his tongue into his mouth, and he welcomed it, relishing the taste of him. It all felt so good. So,  _ so _ good. But then, suddenly, he came to his senses. 

Francis pulled back slowly, eyes questioning as they searched the other man's. Had James intended for this to happen? Had  _ he? _ He had  _ liked  _ it. Why had he liked it? Suddenly, he was drowning in a sea of confusion, but he did not have the strength, nor the motivation to get up and leave. 

"James, I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" he stammered, but James said nothing. His eyelids drooped. He was obviously more intoxicated than Francis was, and on the verge of passing out. Who knew whether he would even remember that this had happened, come morning? 

"Let's get you to bed, James. Hm?" he said, standing up and tugging James to his feet. James followed him to the bedroom and allowed Francis to remove his clothes. Once he'd undressed James down to his undershirt and flannels, Francis tucked him into bed. He was tempted -  _ oh, how he was tempted  _ \- to crawl in beside him - to wrap himself around this man and hold him close all through the night. But he could not. He knew he would regret it in the morning, as would James. So, he simply sat perched on the edge of the bed and waited until he was fully asleep. Then he crept out of the room, collected his things, and headed back to the home of Sir James Ross, with the tingle of James's lips still on his own, and his mind full of questions as he tried to work out what had just happened, and what it all meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This was a tough chapter to write on a number of levels, but also one of the most rewarding for me. I hope you enjoyed it - especially that last bit. ;-) 
> 
> Thank-you so much for reading. I appreciate you all so very much! xoxo


	15. Whither You Will Go

######  _ Francis _

  
  


The following morning, Francis woke before the sun, as he almost always did. This morning, however, something was different: he woke with a raging hard-on. 

"Sweet Mary and Joseph…" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. 

He'd been dreaming of James. 

The entire walk home, the night before, Francis had thought of nothing else but the feeling of the other man's lips on his own. The unexpected kiss had completely overshadowed any lingering anguish over the fatal accident they'd witnessed. He'd tried very hard to convince himself that it had been a fluke - nothing more. A result of the shock they'd just endured, combined with the effects of quickly drunk brandy, along with the warm fire. The adrenaline coursing through their veins had left them open to… suggestion. He'd gone to bed confident that the entire thing would be forgotten by morning, and he could move forward with his life, pretending it had never happened.

The insistent throbbing in his groin made it undeniably clear that he had  _ not  _ forgotten. He swore again, this time rattling off a long litany of profanities before finally accepting that he was going to need to take the situation "in hand." 

He tried - he really did - to think of Sophia as he stroked himself. He closed his eyes and called up the image of her bare shoulders and beautiful breasts, her smooth skin glowing by the light of the fire. He tried imagining that he was back there, thrusting into her sweet warmth instead of his own calloused hand. But it was no use. 

Every time he began to lose himself to his imagination, it was James he saw in his mind's eye. It was James kissing him - James's hand wrapped around his length - James groaning into his ear - James's skin against his…

Francis gasped as he spilled his seed onto his chest and stomach, panting with the exertion. 

"Fuck," he whispered. Quickly, he got out of bed and found a cloth to dry himself, then spent a little extra time at the wash basin to make sure there was no lingering smell left on his skin. Still, he felt dirty, not only because he'd just pleasured himself while thinking of another man, but because he was engaged to be married. What must it say about his character if he cannot be faithful to his fiancee in his imagination, even before they are wed?

Once he'd gotten himself cleaned up and dressed, he went downstairs to join his hosts for breakfast. Francis ate every morsel of the food on his plate, but his mind was elsewhere. He had no earthly idea what he was going to do. It was all very well to have  _ feelings _ for another man, but in 1848, in London… they could be hanged for sodomy, or at least stripped of every rank and honor they'd worked so hard to achieve - outcast for good and all. And then there was the matter of the drink. James had gone from a state of severe shock to a state of intoxication. He'd nearly passed out the moment the kiss ended. What if he didn't remember it at all? Or worse yet, what if he did remember, and regretted it in the extreme? 

Francis was not so naive as to believe that things of this nature never happened. He'd heard plenty of stories of men, separated from the rest of the world, just as they had been, falling prey to the temptation to find release for their sexual impulses with members of the same sex. Of course, when found out, these men were severely lashed, or even executed as punishment… 

There were also men who were known to prefer the company of other men, even when in civilized society. Word had it that John Bridgens was one such man, though he had sworn never to participate in such activities while on duty with the Royal Navy. Indeed, Francis had never witnessed the man acting in any way even remotely inappropriate. He wondered where John Bridgens was now. Perhaps he could seek him out for advice if… 

No! No, this simply would not do. Sodomy and buggery were absolutely forbidden by law, and by spiritual decree! Francis had worked too hard to overcome the evil of his Irish blood to throw it all away over a passing fancy. He was a man, after all. He had loved women.  _ Made love _ to women. This was simply a fluke - an aberration. It meant nothing. Nothing. It  _ had _ to mean nothing.

"Francis? I say, Francis!" 

Francis looked up, startled out of his thoughts by the sound of his name. Sir James Ross was staring at him with some concern. When their eyes met, Sir James's gaze lowered to Francis's plate, and when Francis followed his gaze, he saw that he'd been slicing through his breakfast sausage so forcefully that he'd cracked the china dish beneath. 

"Oh, James, I'm so sorry," he said, feeling not only guilt for damaging his friend's dinnerware, but embarrassed as well. 

"No, Francis, I'm not worried about the dish. We've got a cabinet full of them, you know. But I've been trying to get your attention for the past minute. What is bothering you?"

Francis took a breath. He could lie. He could say that it was nothing. But this was one of his oldest and dearest friends, and he knew that any attempt to blow it off would be recognized as false. So… a part truth. It would have to do.

"Last night I went to The Rag with Captain Fitzjames. On our way back, we witnessed a nightmarish carriage accident. A man was killed, and one of the horses as well." He saw the look of understanding dawn in Sir James's expression.

"My goodness, yes, we were just remarking on it, weren't we, Darling?" Here, he addressed his wife, Ann, who was seated across from him. "It was in the Times. Bloody awful. I'd no idea you'd witnessed it first hand, old man. That must have been incredibly upsetting."

"Aye, it was," Francis said, quick to latch onto this very believable explanation for his preoccupation. "But it affect Fitzjames more deeply than myself. He had a sort of…  _ episode _ … Panic, I suppose."

Sir James nodded. "I imagine it brought back some painful memories for you both," he said. 

"Indeed," Francis agreed. 

"Well? Is he alright? Did you escort him home?" 

"I did. And yes, as far as I know, he is well. I poured him a glass of brandy and saw that he got himself undressed and bundled into bed. He was asleep when I left him."

"He is fortunate to have a friend like you, Francis," Sir James said with great sincerity.

Francis half smiled, looking down at his plate. "I will pay you to replace the plate."

"You'll do no such thing!" Sir James insisted. "Don't be ridiculous. It's only a bit of porcelain. Don't give it another thought. But...I say, perhaps you'd better call around to Fitzjames's lodgings and make sure he's alright this morning." 

Francis choked on the last piece of his sausage, which he'd just put into his mouth. He managed to get it swallowed and took a long drink of water before attempting to speak again. "Excuse me… wrong throat," he croaked. Then he said, "You may be right, James. I'll call on him after breakfast." 

***

Francis paced, three times, up and down the street outside of James's flat before finally climbing the stairs to knock at his door. He'd been playing over and over again in his mind, all the possible things he could say - different ways he could let his friend down easily, if he did in fact remember the kiss at all. He'd not come to any conclusive determination of the words he would say, but he  _ had _ become aware of people giving him odd looks as he walked down the street for a fourth time, so he'd plunged ahead. 

Feeling awkward, and exceptionally nervous, Francis stood outside the door and waited for an answer. The storm from the night before had broken, and the sky was blue. Already, it had warmed enough that the snow was beginning to melt, and it promised to be a very beautiful day. Perhaps they could go for a walk in the park. It might be easier to have an uncomfortable conversation if they were both walking, not staring at one another.

But there was no answer. Francis knocked again. Waited again. Still nothing. 

Perhaps James had simply gone out. It wasn't such a preposterous idea, after all. James would have been relieved to see the blue sky and the first liquid drops of the melting icicles on the eaves. But there was another thought that was decidedly less pleasant, and he couldn't let it go. 

What if James was purposely avoiding him? 

Francis could imagine the scene - James inside his flat, sitting on the sofa and staring at the door, stalwartly refusing to answer, while Francis stood outside knocking. He might be praying fervently that Francis would go away and never come back. 

He knocked again. 

"James? Are you at home? It's Francis," he shouted through the door, but there was no reply. 

_ He must be out. Yes, that's all it is. He's gone out,  _ Francis thought to himself, though this self-reassurance did not completely calm his worry. Finally, he turned away from the door and began the walk back, deciding that he would try again later. 

Francis was glad to find that Sir James and Lady Ann were not at home when he returned. He went straight to the guest room and locked the door, wanting to be alone with his thoughts. There was a writing desk against the far wall, with a window just above, providing illumination in both the physical sense and the creative sense. He sat down in the chair and removed his ink pot, pen, and writing papers from one of the drawers. 

Francis had often thought about beginning the task of writing his memoirs. He'd sat down like this before, with pen in hand, but so far had only managed to waste a fair amount of ink by letting it fall in large, spattered drops onto the paper. Well, perhaps today would be the day when he would actually begin. He placed the pen in the ink pot and gazed out the window at the bright blue sky. Somehow, the image seemed inappropriate. What business had the sky of being so blue, when it had been blizzard conditions the night before? What right had the temperature to climb so high, when there had been years of subzero temperatures in the arctic? It was December, after all, and by all rights, should have been freezing cold! The dissonance of reality against what  _ ought  _ to be was nearly unbearable.

He drew in a deep breath, lifted the pen from the ink well, and began to write.

***

The sun was sagging low over the London skyline by the time Francis pulled himself free of his work. He was amazed at how quickly he'd been able to slip into a state of creative flow, with the words practically spilling from him onto the pages. He was also surprised by the effect the process was having on his own emotions. Several pages had been blurred by the tears he'd shed as he'd poured his heart onto the paper. It had been years since he'd allowed himself to return to those early days of the expedition, long before the ice had claimed their ships and taken them hostage. Long before the effects of malnutrition and lead poisoning had ravaged the crews. Long before they had crossed paths with the Netsilik shaman and his daughter, and the abomination they'd called Tuunbaq. 

Many of those men had not returned. Many more had been badly wounded, or would live the rest of their days with severe pain in their heads, muscles and joints, memory loss, and the other devastating effects of lead poisoning. To remember them in those early days was bittersweet, almost to the point of being unbearable. So many lives lost. So many wasted men, all for the purpose of shaving a few weeks off the journey to China. It had not been worth the cost. Nowhere near.

With a heavy sigh, Francis dragged his hands over his face, wiping the grit from his eyes that had resulted from staring too long at the pages before him. He carefully put his pen into his case and capped his ink pot, placing them both back in the drawer from which he had taken them. The pages of writing he stacked neatly and placed into a separate drawer, tied with a scrap of twine. He was far from finished with his writing, but he was finished for the day, at least. He stood from his chair and stretched, and was rewarded with a symphony of pops and cracks along his spine.

Judging by the position of the sun, he guessed it to be roughly four in the afternoon. After spending hours in reliving the early days of the expedition through his writing, Francis felt a raw need to be with James again. Whatever had happened the night before didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. They had been friends and they would continue to be friends, despite one drunken indiscretion. He would return to James's flat and they could share an evening meal together. If the events of the previous night came up, they would discuss it. But what he needed was companionship. He needed to be reminded that  _ some _ of the men returned home. He needed to be near James.

Francis stood outside James's flat again, though the air held a crisp bite which it had lacked earlier. He knocked on the door, but was once again met with silence from within. Doubt and frustration coiled in his stomach. Something must be wrong. What if James was ill? What if he'd had a stroke or some other horrible thing had happened in the night? He knocked again, shouting through the door once more, but still no answer.

At a loss, Francis had no choice but to turn around and go back home, though with each trudging step he took, he felt the oppressive weight of despair fall more and more heavily on his shoulders. For the first time since King William Island, Francis allowed himself to wonder how he would carry on if he was forced to live without James Fitzjames. It was an image so bleak that he refused to allow it to take hold. 

If something had happened to James, there would have been word. He would have been missed. Someone would have reported it to the papers or to the Admiralty. No. If James was angry with him, Francis would simply continue to return and knock on his door until he grew so tired of it that he let him inside. Moreover, there was still the off chance that he'd simply still been out and about. Doubtless he had other friends on whom to call. Chores that required his attention.

No. Life without the friendship and companionship of James Fitzjames simply would not be acceptable. He would return tomorrow morning. And the following morning. And the one after that, until James let him in. It was as simple as that.

***

######  _ James _

James had awakened that morning filled with a feeling of absolute dread. It took him a few moments to recall the events of the previous night, and piece together the reasons for his sense of foreboding. The memories came back in a vivid flash of horrible clarity: the snow, the carriage accident, the feeling that he'd been back in the ice, witnessing the death of Sir John all over again, helpless to save him. Then he'd felt as though he couldn't breathe, like his heart was going to burst. He couldn't remember the journey back to his flat at all, though he knew that Francis must have gotten him there, somehow. There was a period of time that was simply blank. But after that, there were some memories, albeit hazy. 

He remembered Francis making him sip brandy. He remembered watching the shape of his mouth as he'd said James's name. He remembered clinging to that one single image - just the shape of Francis's mouth - focusing only on that until he was able to breathe again. And then… 

James felt his heart perform some complicated maneuver inside his ribcage. Surely, he could not be remembering correctly… Had he and Francis…? 

No. No, that wasn't possible. Francis was madly in love with that ridiculous woman, Sophia. He would never… and even if he wasn't engaged to be married, Francis Crozier simply wouldn't be the type to… Would he? And that didn't even take into account his  _ own  _ responsibility in the matter. Surely, James would not have… He'd never been attracted to another man. It simply wasn't in him to…  _ Was it? _

And yet, every fiber of his being told him that it  _ had _ happened. He had kissed Francis, and Francis had let him. Not only that, Francis had returned that kiss. He was sure of it. What's more,  _ he had liked it!  _

The image had solidified in his mind to the point that he could remember the taste of Francis's mouth, the feeling of his cornsilk hair between his fingers, and the gentle scrape of Francis's teeth as he'd tentatively slipped his tongue into his mouth. He felt goosebumps rise on his arms at the memory. He could not have imagined this. There was no denying it. 

James glanced out the window and was relieved to see the sun shining. He needed someone to talk to. Someone he could trust, who would not condemn him. Someone who was  _ not _ Francis. He'd been thinking about it for a long time, but in that moment he decided that today was the day he would pay a visit to Thomas Blanky.

***

Three hours later, James Fitzjames sat in a velvet-upholstered seat on board a steam engine locomotive, bound for Thomas Blanky's home in Whitby, Yorkshire. He had sent a telegraph ahead of him from the train station, alerting Thomas that he would be arriving at eight o'clock that evening, as the train ride from West London to Whitby would take several hours to complete. When they'd parted ways weeks before, Thomas had assured James that he would be more than welcome to stay with his family any time he had the need or desire, and James felt that there would never be a greater need than this. 

The further north they traveled, the more snow still covered the ground, and James began to feel nauseated. He pulled down the blind and sat up straight in his chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He tried to think about what he would say to Thomas. How could he speak the words aloud? He could barely acknowledge the fact to himself, let alone confess it to another human being. But he knew that if there was a man alive who would listen to him without judgement, that man was surely Thomas Blanky. 

It was dark by the time the train pulled into Whitby Railway Station, but as he stepped onto the platform, James could smell the salty sea air and hear the cries of the water foul in the distance. The scents of salt and sand and drying seaweed washed over him, awakening feelings he could not fully identify, nor truly understand. It was a sort of longing, dampened by fear. Fear, yes. Fear was his constant companion of late. It followed him wherever he went. 

"Oy! James!" He heard the gruff, familiar voice of Thomas Blanky shout his name over the din, and spotted him at once, standing with his weight on his makeshift crutch, smiling and waving at him. 

James returned his smile and strode across the platform to greet him. 

"Thomas. So good to see you," he said, setting down his valise and opening his arms to embrace his friend. 

"Have a pleasant trip?" Thomas asked him, giving him a paternal pat on the shoulder. 

"Tolerable enough," James replied, grabbing his suitcase. "It's difficult to imagine that the steam engine on Erebus was once used to propel one of these things."

"Aye, that it is," Thomas agreed. "Well, c'mon. I reckon you'll be tired and hungry. The wife's got the kettle on the fire, and I saved you some supper."

James had been through Whitby in the past, but never stopped in the town itself. He found it beautiful and tranquil, though he might have found it deadly dull just a few years ago. A quaint seaside village, the town of Whitby was nestled along the seafront with a wide plateau rising behind the modern structures. Exquisite Gothic architecture kissed the sky on the top of that plateau, barely visible in the moonlight. James made a mental note to go and explore the following day.

"Here we are," Thomas said, pausing outside the door of one of a row of attached houses lining a narrow cobblestone alleyway. They stepped inside, and James felt soothed at once. The interior was warm and cozy, humble but well kept, and there was a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. 

"That you, love?" called a woman's voice from the other room. 

"Aye, it's me, Esther," Blanky replied. Then to James, he said, "Come on. I'll introduce you to the family." 

James followed him through the narrow walkway to the back of the house, where a pleasant looking woman with steely grey hair swept into a loose bun stood over the fire. Two young girls sat at the table, but immediately jumped up and ran to Thomas gleefully when he came within their view, wrapping their slender arms around his waist. 

"Ah, my angels," Thomas said, bending to kiss their heads. Once they'd released their hold on him, Thomas said, "Girls, I'd like you to meet my good friend, James Fitzjames." Then, to James, he said, "This is Stella, and the little one is Elizabeth, and this is my wife, Esther."

"I'm so pleased to meet ye," Esther said, giving James a little curtsy from her position by the fire. "Thomas 'as told me so much about ye." 

"Likewise, I'm sure, Madame," James said, bowing in greeting.

Elizabeth, who James judged to be about eight or nine years old, giggled and said, "That's a funny name. Why does he have the same name twice?"

Thomas gave James an apologetic look. "Now, Elizabeth, remember yer manners," he scolded. 

"I'm sorry, Father," she said, so forlornly that James felt sorry for her. 

"Oh, it's alright," he said, crouching down to her level and giving her a smile. "It  _ is _ a funny name, isn't it? It's certainly not the name that  _ I _ would have chosen. Not so lovely a name as Elizabeth, or Stella."

The girls turned to each other and giggled again. 

"Ahr, where're my manners? Please sit. I'll pour the tea," said Mrs. Blanky, gesturing to the next room, where there were a few chairs scattered throughout. 

"I am indebted to you for your hospitality," James said, bowing again before turning to walk into the other room. Once he and Thomas were seated, out of earshot of the ladies, James said, "You have a beautiful family, Thomas. I didn't realize that you had children."

"Oh, aye. Never really came up in conversation, did it?" he said. "But thank you, James. I think they are beautiful also." 

Esther entered the room, carrying a tray with the kettle and two tea cups. She set it on the small table between their two chairs and whisked out of the room again, remarking over her shoulder to Thomas that she would be heading upstairs to get the children ready for bed. Once the men had the ground floor to themselves, and the tea had been drunk, Thomas leaned forward in his chair. 

"What is it that brings ye to Whitby, James?" he asked. "I know ye came to see me, but what's bothering ye? It's an awful long trip to make, spur of the moment unless ye've got good cause to make it." 

James nodded, trying to keep his heart from racing. He'd known this moment would come, but he'd still managed to somehow not be prepared for it.

"I'm not well, Thomas," he finally said. "I'm not at all well."

"What's the trouble? Is it yer musket wounds?"

"No, no, not that," said James with a frown. "No, the effects of the scurvy have healed like a dream. It's… nervous trouble. It's my thoughts… my… Well…" He sighed, but Thomas simply watched him, waiting silently for him to continue. 

"I have these episodes… my heart beats louder and faster, and I have shortness of breath. Sometimes it feels like I'm going to be sick to my stomach, or pass out. It comes out of nowhere, and I don't understand… Am I a man or an child, Thomas? I don't know anymore. I wake up in the night, drenched in my own sweat, screaming from the horrible,  _ horrible _ nightmares I have. When it began, it was only once in a while, but now…" 

James shook his head, feeling his throat constrict like he might be going to cry. He reached over and poured himself another cup of tea and sipped it, hoping that Thomas would speak, so he would be spared more words.

"What you're describing sounds like some type of hysteria, or what they call episodes of distress. I've seen men break down at sea. It isn't pretty, but it isn't yer fault, either. Sometimes, when a man has experienced something that ought not to be experienced by mortal men, the effects… linger. It don't mean y'er any less a man, James. It only means y'er human."

As Thomas spoke, James felt something break inside him, and at last, he let his tears fall. Just hearing another man tell him that he wasn't mad, and he wasn't being juvenile, was a relief beyond what he'd even imagined. 

"What did you do for those men?" James asked, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

"Liquor mostly," Blanky said with a shrug. "Sometimes the doctor'd give 'em morphia to calm 'em if they were in dire straits. The important thing is to not give up, James. The things we seen out there on the ice… no man oughtta be forced to witness that. Let alone give a part of 'imself in the process." He reached down and gave his wooden leg an affectionate slap, and James let out a chuckle.

"You are a remarkable man, Thomas Blanky," James said. "I don't believe I've ever met a man with such strength of heart."

"Ahh," Thomas said, waving him off. "They grow 'em tough up here." 

"There was...something else," James said reluctantly. 

"Aye, I figured there was," Thomas remarked. 

"How did you know?"

"Well, if ye'd only wanted to talk about yer panic episodes, ye could'a talked to Francis. I'm guessin it's the man 'imself ye wanted to talk to me about. Am I right?"

James stared at him, astonished. "Truly, a most remarkable man," he said. "Yes, you've guessed it."

Thomas Blanky let out a guffaw and slapped his knee, clearly pleased with himself. "Ok, James. Let's get ye a bowl of stew, and then ye can tell me all about it." 

***

The two men sat at the wooden table, enjoying the excellent stew. James had not yet begun to tell Thomas about Francis, suddenly having second thoughts about the confession. But Thomas would not be put off any longer. He placed his spoon in the empty bowl and sat back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. 

"Well then, ye'd better tell me the latest on our boy, Francis. I heard 'e proposed, and the silly girl accepted." He shook his head disdainfully.

"Yes…" James said, poking at the dregs of his stew with the tip of his spoon. "She did."

"But that's not the issue, is it? Something else is bothering ye. Why not just tell me, James? Ye'll feel better gettin' it off yer chest."

James dropped the spoon, letting it clatter into the bowl. He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath, still not quite looking at Thomas. "There's something… unnatural going on," he finally said.

"Unnatural?" Thomas repeated, one brow arched inquiringly. "Well now I'm intrigued. Go on."

"I don't know exactly how to explain it… I… Well, let me begin with the events of yesterday."

James recounted the tale of their meeting with the Admiralty, Fracis's determination to see Sophia and his subsequent melancholy, and then their visit to the Club. He shared a very abbreviated version of the carriage accident, including his anxiety reaction, and Francis helping him get home and nursing him until he was coherent again. 

"We were sitting on the sofa, and we'd had that brandy… Francis was calming me. He was very good at it. But, well, we'd been drinking, you see, and we were sitting close together on the sofa, and… I don't know how it happened…"

Thomas watched him expectantly. James wasn't sure whether he was relieved or annoyed that he wasn't attempting to finish James's sentence. He cast Thomas a plaintive look, but Thomas simply nodded for him to continue.

"Well, he kissed me. Or, rather, I kissed him. I don't know. It happened so quickly, and then it was over, and I could barely keep my eyes open. And the next thing I knew, I was waking up this morning."

Thomas looked mildly alarmed, but not judgmental. He nodded, and then said slowly, "And when you woke up this morning, was he…"

"No! No, no. I was alone in my bed. I'm certain that nothing else happened." 

"I see." Thomas leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "Well, this is a somewhat unexpected turn of events."

"Somewhat?" James scoffed. "Only somewhat?"

Thomas shrugged. "It takes a lot to shock a man like me, James. An awful lot. And when we were lodging in Greenhithe, I could tell that you were confused about yer feelings for Francis."

James gave him an incredulous look, but Thomas held up his hands. "I'm only stating what I saw. The question now is, what are ye going to do about it?"

James threw up his hands. "What  _ can _ I do? I can't allow this to happen. We'd be hanged! And even if we weren't, we'd be outcast. Besides, I highly doubt that Francis would even  _ want  _ to… to…" He uttered a frustrated groan. "Francis is engaged to be married. Even if there were... _ feelings _ between us - and I'm not saying that there are! But even if there were, it's simply out of the question!"

Thomas regarded him with a self-satisfied smirk. "What's so funny?" James demanded.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. It's only that ye're speaking as if it's a foregone conclusion that it'll come to nought, but if that were so, then why'd ye spend the day on a train, comin' to see me?"

James felt himself deflate. Blanky was right. Why  _ had _ he come all this way, if he'd already made up his mind what to do. 

"I want your advice, Thomas. I needed to talk to someone who wouldn't cast me aside or ridicule me. I needed advice from a man whose judgement I respect, and that man is you."

"Do you love him?" Thomas asked, not missing a beat. 

"Love him?" James repeated. He hadn't even considered the word "love." He didn't know how to answer that. "I… care for him a great deal. I respect him as a leader and as a man, and I value his friendship."

"Aye, I dare say, but do ye  _ love _ him?" 

James sighed. "I don't know," he said. 

Thomas nodded sagely. "Well, I'd say the first step is to figure out exactly what it is that ye feel for Francis. I can't speak for his side, but I do know that he wouldn't'a let ye kiss him if he'd been repulsed by it." 

James considered this, and had to admit that it was true. Whatever had passed between them in that moment, the feeling had most definitely been mutual.

"But what of the law?" James said. 

"Ah, well, no one need know, do they? Bachelors have lived together under a roof for centuries. Ain't nothing sinister in it. What business is it of anybody's what ye do in the privacy of yer own home?" 

"And you? You aren't… repulsed by the idea?" 

Thomas smiled that world-wise smile of his and shook his head. "As I said, moment ago, there's little in this world, can shock me anymore. You and Francis are grown men, and respectable men. What's more, y'er  _ good _ men. I know that, better 'an most. I also know that nothin' good comes from runnin' from y'er own feelings. A man's gotta be honest with himself, if with nobody else."

"You really are a remarkable man, Thomas Blanky," James repeated, shaking his head with a bemused smile. "Thank-you for not judging me harshly."

"Bah! Ain't nothin' to judge," Thomas said. "C'mon. I'll show ye where ye'll be sleeping tonight. It's nothin' special, but I dare say it's comfortable enough."

They rose from the table and James followed Thomas up the wooden staircase and around a corner to a room not much bigger than his berth on board Erebus. There was a single bed wedged up against the wall, and a spattering of framed paintings on the walls. 

"We'll have breakfast at seven. Then I'll show ye 'round Whitby if ye like. Y'er welcome to stay on as long as ye need. All right?"

"Thank-you, Thomas. Truly. I don't know how to thank you for your kindness."

"You can keep Francis in line for me, for starters," Thomas quipped. He gave James a wink and turned to hobble out of the tiny room, closing the door behind him. 

He'd been right about the bed. It really was very comfortable. James lay on his back, staring out the window at the starlit sky, wondering what Francis was doing in that moment, and before long, he had fallen into a deep, tranquil sleep.


	16. Life of the Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating. ;-) Also, I wasn’t happy with the way I had the chapter end initially, so I’ve made some revisions I hope you enjoy the chapter! ♥️

######  _ Francis _

The days dragged on, and there was still no sign of Fitzjames. With each attempt to reach him, Francis became more and more discouraged. There had been no news in the paper, and no one at the Admiralty had heard of any tragedy. So it was that Francis now stood outside the small ground floor flat where the housekeeper for James's building lived. He simply _ had _ to know what had happened to his friend. 

A small, slightly hunched middle aged woman answered the door with a suspicious look on her face. "Ay? Who's that?" she asked, peeking through the crack in the doorway with the chain still latched. 

"My name is Francis Crozier. I'm a friend of James Fitzjames, who lives upstairs."

"Oh, yah...whad'ja want?"

Francis tried not to let his frustration show. Why must people be so condescending? "I've been unable to reach him. I was simply wondering whether he might have made you aware of his...situation."

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. "If you was such a good friend as all that, wouldn't he 'a told you where he was goin'?"

Francis sighed, seeing that he was getting nowhere with this woman. "If you see him, would you please tell him that Captain Crozier begs an audience with him at his earliest convenience?"

"Aye, I'll tell him," she said, not at all convincingly. 

Crozier bowed and took his leave, feeling frustrated, but mostly disheartened. James must have gone _ somewhere _. The woman had basically said as much, in a round-about way. But where would he have gone? Back to his adoptive family's home? But surely, if he'd made plans to travel home, he would have mentioned it to Francis. Wherever he had gone, he had not wanted Francis to know his plans. This thought caused his heart to sag. 

By the time Francis arrived at Sir James Ross's home, Francis's mood had shifted from one of despair and sadness to anger. Very well! If James was going to be so juvenile about the whole thing, then perhaps he was doing them both a favor! Francis had been a fool to even give a single thought to the possibility that some intimacy might develop between them. He had a sudden, vivid flashback of his conversation with Sir John on Erebus. 

_ "There are certain things we were never meant to be to one another. Friends on my side. Relations on yours. So let us turn our energies back to being what the Admiralty, and life, have seen fit to make us. We should give that our best. There can be no argument between us there." _

Perhaps it was the same with James. Perhaps, it was for the best. 

Francis stepped through the front door of his temporary home, and was immediately met by the sound of female laughter from the adjoining room. Lady Anne must have had a visitor. But then he heard the other woman speak, and he froze. The voice was one he would recognize anywhere.

"Sophia," he said, stepping into the parlor, where the women were seated. "This is indeed a lovely surprise."

Anne glanced quickly between the two of them, then whispered something to Sophia and hurried from the room.

"Come and sit with me, Francis," Sophia said, beckoning him in. He complied. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, struggling to determine whether he was actually happy to see her or not. Was this how she had felt when he'd turned up on her doorstep the previous week?

"I have completed the invitations for our engagement announcement dinner," she said, producing a small stack of cards from her handbag. "I thought you might like to deliver some of them by hand." She passed the stack to him and the name on the top envelope made his heart plummet. 

_ Captain James Fitzjames _

He blinked away his surprise and looked at her again. "I shall. Thank-you, Sophia," he said.

"Francis, you don't seem pleased," she said, her expression darkening slightly. "I'd have thought you'd be happy to see that I'd held up my part of the bargain. You were in such a rush to get the event put together, when we last spoke."

"Yes, yes, forgive me, Sophia," Francis said, trying hard to pull himself out of his melancholy and remind himself of what his priorities ought to be. "I am, _ very _ pleased. Thank you for doing this. I shall deliver the invitations at once."

"The dinner is set for Tuesday next, at six o'clock, with coffee, cocktails, and desserts served in the parlor after the meal. Lady Jane has offered to play the piano-forte for our guests. It shall be a lovely evening."

Crozier tried not to show his distaste for Lady Jane's piano playing. "That does, indeed, sound lovely," he said. 

"Is there something the matter, Francis?" Sophia asked. "You seem distracted." 

Francis shook his head. It was true. Even without his distress over James's disappearance, Francis had been in low spirits ever since he'd begun writing his memoirs. Each day he sat and wrote, and each day his mood dropped lower. He never would have believed all the little things he'd forgotten, that now came flooding back to him in the retelling. 

"My spirits have been heavy of late," he said to her. "It is difficult to explain to someone who has not experienced… well, what I experienced. But my thoughts are clouded, as if there is a shadow hanging over me wherever I go. I am haunted by the men whose bodies are buried on Beechey and King William Island. No, I don't mean that their spirits _ literally haunt _ me. But their memory." He paused, turning his head to look out the window, afraid that he might begin to tear up. He did not wish for Sophia to see him cry. 

"But surely, now that you have returned, ought you not to forget about all that? You must put it from your mind, Francis. You have a life, here in England. You can not live in the past."

Francis curled his lip in a cynical smirk. "Oh yes? Put it from my mind? Do you think it's so simple as that? Do you have any _ idea _ of the things we saw out there on the ice? The things we _ did _ to survive?" 

"I do," Sophia insisted. "Lady Jane has told me stories of Sir John's expedition to the Arctic, when he was forced to eat his boots."

Francis shook his head. "It isn't the same thing," he said.

Sophia sighed dramatically. "Very well, Francis. If you insist upon wallowing in your melancholy, I can not stop you. But once we are married, you will be the head of our house, and you must be willing and able to step up and take on the responsibilities of a man in such a capacity."

This was a step too far. Francis stood to his feet, suddenly enraged. "Do you mean to imply that I am not behaving as a man _ now, _Sophia?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch and volume. "It's all very well for you to tell me to put past events from my mind, but until you have faced down a crew of 70 men and inform them that the food they've been eating for years has been slowly poisoning them, or that two of their crewmates have been torn in half by some kind of demon animal, I don't want to hear your rationalizations."

Sophia looked alarmed at this outburst. She glanced toward the doorway nervously, then reached out to take Francis's hand, pulling him back onto the couch. 

"Francis, please," she whispered. "We mustn't let them hear us argue. I didn't mean to be callous. Please believe me. It's only that I hate to see you in pain."

Francis wilted visibly as he sat, his head hanging low. "I apologize, Sophia. I should not have raised my voice."

"It's quite alright, Francis," she assured him, patting his hand. "Quite alright."

***

Francis had delivered all the invitations, save one. The invitation addressed to "Captain James Fitzjames" now rested in his breast coat pocket, burning a hole in his chest as he stood outside James's flat, staring up at his window. He almost hoped that Fitzjames would not be at home. He'd made up his mind, and that was all there was to it. He was going to marry Sophia, and seeing James now would only cloud the matter unduly. 

He needn't have fretted about it, because James did not answer his door. With a heavy sigh, Francis descended the stairs and knocked on the housekeeper's door once more. She answered with the same brusque manner, but willingly took the card and assured him that she would deliver it. There was nothing more to be done. With any luck, James would throw the invitation into the fire and be done with it.

The days passed in a haze. Francis had managed not to have anything stronger than coffee to drink, though the temptation was always there. He continued working through his memoirs, and continued to battle the demons of his past. It was, perhaps, this constant reminder of the effects of his perpetual intoxication that kept him from falling back into his old vice. He tried to cheer himself with looking forward to the dinner party and the announcement of his engagement, but with each passing day, he wondered more and more about whether he even _ wanted _ to marry Sophia anymore. 

He'd spent so many years longing for her that he hadn't truly stopped to consider the fact that they were not the same people (or at least, certainly, _ he _ was not the same) as they had been before the expedition. Still, he refused to break his word, and he felt confident that, once he'd forgotten about James Fitzjames, he would return to his blissful feelings for Sophia. 

The day of the dinner party arrived like any other day, and Francis woke feeling optimistic. He was looking forward to seeing some of his old friends with whom he'd not yet had the chance to visit, as well as seeing a few of his fellow officers from the expedition to whom he hadn't spoken since their return. Yes, he would enjoy the evening thoroughly, regardless of whether James Fitzjames deigned to make an appearance or not. 

Since Sir James Ross and his wife were also attending, they rode together in their private coach. Anne was all aglow with excitement, chattering away to her husband, who nodded and smiled a great deal, making the odd remark when it felt appropriate. Francis was relatively sure he wasn't actually listening, but Anne didn't seem to notice.

The instant Francis saw Sophia, he felt his heart leap in his chest. She looked absolutely radiant in a pale blue chiffon dress, with her flaxen hair swept back in a loose bundle at the nape of her neck. She hurried over to greet him with a warm smile and escorted him into the drawing room, where the first of the guests were beginning to arrive. 

"You look lovely," he whispered to her as they walked, coaxing a shy smile from her lips. 

"Thank you, Francis. And you look very handsome this evening," she replied, looping her arm through his and leaning against him lightly. "I did have my doubts, but I am glad we decided to make the announcement sooner, rather than later," she said, beaming up at him. Francis had no idea what had put her into such a joyful mood, but he was extremely grateful for it.

The next half hour was spent mingling, making new acquaintances and catching up with older ones. So far, there was no sign of Fitzjames, and with each passing moment, Francis relaxed a little more. Perhaps luck would favor him after all, for once in his life. He was just returning to the side of his fiancee when he heard it. Over the din of casual chatter, Francis heard one voice soar above the rest. 

"So sorry that I'm late! I do hope you've not been waiting on me to begin the meal."

Francis felt as if his blood had turned to ice in his veins and his heart had been thrust up into his throat. Slowly, he turned toward the sound, and there, standing in the doorway was James Fitzjames, in full dress uniform, looking as though he was self-appointed king of the world. Francis tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry, and he felt a cold sweat prickling at his skin. 

"Francis, are you alright?" Sophia was asking him.

"What? Oh, yes. Yes I'm fine."

"You look as though you've seen a ghost," she said with a little laugh.

"Do I? Apologies, Sophia. Yes, I'm perfectly fine."

At that moment, a well dressed member of the serving staff entered the room to announce that dinner was served in the grand dining room, and there was a general swell in murmurings of satisfaction and delight from the guests. The whole crowd stood and began to move toward the exit, but Francis remained frozen in place, staring at James, who was now gazing back at him with an unreadable look. After what felt like an eternity, James dropped his gaze, turned, and followed the crowd to the dining room. Only then did Francis finally shake himself free of his shock and followed the others.

***

Francis made certain that he was seated as far from Fitzjames as possible at the long mahogany dining table, but he found himself continually glancing down at the other man. James never looked his direction, but seemed to be deeply engrossed in conversation with the men on either side of him. Francis tried to make small talk with those seated closest to Sophia and himself, but his heart just wasn't in it. He ate as little of his food as he could manage without offending anyone, and the moment he saw the last person set down their utensils, loudly suggested that they all return to the parlor for after dinner coffee and music. Sophia shot him a disdainful look, but he ignored her. He'd been looking forward to this night for weeks, but now that it had come, all he wanted to do was go home and lock himself in his room, possibly with a bottle of whiskey.

The guests milled around the parlor, sipping cocktails or coffee or tea. Lady Jane took a seat at the piano-forte and began to play. Francis was staring into his cup of strong, black coffee, contemplating the similarities it held to his dark, bitter existence. Sophia had not stayed by his side, after chastising him on the way to the parlor for being "rude and sulky." He'd apologized, but if anything, his mood had only deteriorated further, and now Sophia was nowhere to be seen. His gaze kept wandering to the spirit cabinet, wondering if there was any good Irish Cream that he could pour into his abysmal coffee.

"Good evening, Francis," came a familiar baritone. Francis nearly spilled his drink as he looked up quickly to see James standing close in front of him. Too close. 

"Evening, James," he said, coughing to clear his throat.

"You look a little melancholy this evening. I'd have thought you'd be brimming with ecstatic jubilation at the announcement of your engagement."

Francis squinted at him, trying to read the mood behind his words. He could not. 

"I'm...perhaps a little tired. That's all," he said, looking down at his coffee again.

"Well, then drink up Francis. We can't have you slinking about in a stupor tonight, of all nights, can we?"

When Francis looked up again, James was gone. "Damn it all to Hell," Francis mumbled. He felt as though someone had run him through a wringer, and he was tired. He was just so abominably tired. 

When he was sure no one was looking, he made his way to the drink cart and tipped a bottle of whiskey into his cup, filling his nearly empty cup to the brim. If he was going to be forced to suffer through this night, he would damn well enjoy the dulling effects of whiskey!

The alcohol made a marked improvement in the flavor of what little coffee had been left in his cup, as well as a vast improvement in his mood. He sought out Sophia and did his best to join the conversation, but she stared at him disapprovingly. When she could pull him away without being rude to the guests, she looked him straight in the eye and said, "Francis, have you been drinking?"

Francis made a sort of huffing sound, waving her off.

"I'm serious, Francis. Have you been into the whiskey?"

"I needed a little something for the nerves. That's all, Sophia," he said nonchalantly.

Sophia would not be put off. "Francis, you promised that you were finished with alcohol."

"Uh, no, I did not," he said, frowning. "When did I ever _ promise _ such a thing to you?" 

"Well, not to me, exactly. But that was what Captain Fitzjames had told me…"

This was too much for him to take. His face contorted into something close to rage as he leaned into her. "Why does everyone feel the need to discuss _ my _ personal affairs with James Fitz-bloody-james? It's none of his business, and he had no right to say such a thing to you. When did you even speak to him on your own?"

Sophia looked frightened for a split second, but then gathered herself and threw herself back at him. "I have every right to speak to whomever I please about _ my _ personal affairs, and since I'm to be your _ wife _, that means by extension that your affairs are mine as well."

"Bah!" He threw up his hands and walked away from her, back into the midst of the group. From the other side of the room, Francis could hear James once again recounting his adventures with HMS Cornwallis, and his epic ascent of the city walls of Chinkiang, where he'd been shot. He wasn't entirely certain, but would have placed a hefty wager on the odds that he was using the exact same words that he'd used onboard Terror. Did the man have a bloody script he'd memorized?

Sophia followed him, her voice low and insistent. "Francis, I know you've been drinking, and I think you should go home." 

"You're ridiculous, woman!" he said, shaking her off. He was suddenly seeing things more clearly than before, and he wanted to give James a piece of his mind. The _ nerve _ of the man! It wasn't bad enough that he'd shown up here tonight, out of the blue, after ignoring Francis for the better part of a week, but now to find out he'd been conferring with Sophia behind his back? He wouldn't stand for it. And if he had to listen to another word of that blasted Chinese sniper story, he thought he'd rather take a musket ball to his own head.

"You!" he shouted at James, pointing a finger accusatively "You've got some nerve!" 

James looked up at him with a look of shock and...hurt? Pity? The thought of James's pity was like a hot poker to his gut, and he began to shove his way through the other guests, but Sophia had apparently enlisted the help of Sir James Ross and another man, whose face Francis could not see. They had gripped him by the arms, and were forcing him backward, out of the room. 

"Look here, old man," James Ross was saying. "I know you've been under a lot of strain lately, but you can't behave this way. It's unbecoming." 

"Unbecoming!" Francis snorted. 

"Francis, you've overexerted yourself, and you need to calm down. Let me drive you home. I'll make your excuses to the guests. There needn't be a scene."

Francis laughed out loud. "A scene? A scene! And what about Fitzjames in there, with his sycophants all gathered around, telling a story that's probably not even bloody true! There's a scene, I'll be bound!" 

James Ross gave the others a look and took Francis by the arm, walking with him toward the door. "Listen to me, Francis," he said softly. "You've been into the alcohol. I can smell it on your breath. No one is judging you, but I can't call myself your friend and stand back and watch while you make a fool of yourself in front of all these good people. You are upset. That much is clear. But with the whiskey in your blood, you aren't thinking rationally. Now if you don't want me to babysit you, I understand that. But you must go home and sleep it off. Please, old friend. If you won't do it for me, do it for Sophia."

Francis took a deep breath and nodded. He was right. He needed to get out of there. "Alright, James," he said, smoothing his suit down where it had bunched up in the scuffle. "There's no need for you to leave. I'll walk home. Please give my apologies to the guests, won't you?"

"Of course. And be careful walking back."

***

######  _ James _

"Where is Francis?" Fitzjames asked Sir James Ross when he re-entered the parlor.

"He wasn't feeling well. He's gone home, and asked me to make his excuses to the guests."

James felt his heart sink. Francis was not ill. There was something else going on. Did it have to do with him? When he'd returned home from his visit with Thomas, James had been devastated by Crozier's invitation to the dinner party, but he'd been determined to make an appearance, no matter what his personal feelings on the matter had been. The dinner itself had been the nearest possible thing to torture, as he'd been forced to stand by and watch Francis hanging on the arm of Sophia Cracroft, apparently beaming with self-satisfied delight. But now, he wondered whether that had all been a show. For his benefit? Surely not. 

"Thank you, Sir James," he said, and hurried past him to the foyer, grabbing his coat before lunging out the door and into the street, searching for Francis. He couldn't have gotten far. Sure enough, by the flickering lamp light, he could see a figure trudging down the road. 

"Francis!" he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. 

Francis turned to look over his shoulder and James could perfectly imagine the way he must have been rolling his eyes. 

"Go away!" he shouted back, waving a dismissive hand, but never stopping.

James, undeterred, began to run in his direction, catching up to him relatively quickly.

"I told you to go back," Francis said without turning to look at James.

"What's gotten into you, Francis? Why are you so determined to be unhappy?"

Francis finally stopped and turned to look at him. "How dare you ask me that? You, of all people!"

"Me!" James said, indignant. "I think I've more of a right to ask you that question than most people. Don't you?"

Francis shook his head and resumed walking. "I'll not have this conversation in the middle of the street, James," he said. "Go back to the party and enjoy your ridiculous tall tales."

"Very well, if you won't have this conversation in the street, then come back to my flat. It's on the way. We can discuss it there."

Francis gave him a sidelong glance, but did not reply. However, he also did not insist again that James return to the party. The pair walked side by side in silence, until they reached James's building. Then, still without saying a word, they turned and went inside. 

James shrugged out of his coat, then took Francis's as well, hanging them both on the coat rack by the door. "Will you have a cup of tea?" he asked.

"No, I'll not have a cup of tea!" Francis said. By the sound of it, he'd been storing up all his righteous indignation from their walk to unleash at this moment. "Where in bloody Hell have you been, James?" he demanded.

James blinked at him, surprised by his directness. "I was... away. I didn't realize I needed your permission to have a short holiday."

"Like Hell you didn't!" Francis said, smacking the arm of the chair he’d just sat in, with the palm of his hand. "After what happened the other night, I was _ worried _ about you! I thought you'd been taken to hospital or worse! I didn't know where you were, or if you were sick or injured, or… if you never wanted to see me again."

James frowned. "Why on Earth would I never want to see you again, Francis?" he asked. 

"You know very well why not," said Francis, lowering his voice. He was agitated and stood, wringing his hands. "After what happened… _ that _ night…"

"You mean the accident?" James asked. He knew he was pressing. He knew very well that wasn't what Francis meant, but he wanted to hear him say it.

"No, I don't mean the bloody accident, and you know it, James!" Francis took a few steps closer to him and poked him in the chest with one forefinger. 

"I _ needed _you, James. I needed you here, and you were gone, and I didn't know where you'd gone, or why, or for how long."

"Oh, I see. You needed me, and so you decided it was a good time to announce your engagement to the whole of the Admiralty, whether I might be present or not. Is that it?"

Francis gaped at him. "As I've only just stated, I didn't know where you were! You could have been _ dead _ for all I knew!"

"And so your first reaction was to throw a party. Oh, I see it all clearly now. Well, Francis, I've already offered you my congratulations on your forthcoming marriage. I don't really see what else there is to be said."

Francis looked stricken, his face pinched as he gave James another shove. "I don't _ want _ your congratulations!" he shouted, face flushed. "I don't want your pity, or your false charity, or your fucking congratulations!"

"Well, then Francis, I am at an utter loss as to what it is that you _ do _ want. We've had this conversation once before, you and I. Do you remember? So what is it that you want this time? Someone you can come moping to when you feel sad and then toss aside when a better option comes along? Because I can't do that, Francis. I _ won't _ be your doormat, do you hear?"

Francis started to turn away with a sneer, but James took him by the shoulders. "Don't you turn away from me, Francis. I need you to answer me now, once and for all. What is it that you want from me? Hm? What? Tell me!"

Francis tensed under James's strong grip, and finally looked up at him with wide eyes. The anger that had blazed behind those eyes a moment ago had been replaced with something different, but equally potent. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, almost pleading. "Don't you know, James?"

This was more than James could bear. Time seemed to stand still, the whole world frozen around them as they looked into each other's eyes, reading the depths of pain and torment and weariness that each recognized as their own mirror image. James opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, and then he was leaning forward, his lips crashing against Francis's. 

If their first kiss had been tentative, gentle, and cool, this one was white hot. James, still gripping Francis by the shoulders, shoved him back against the wall. A low, visceral sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper rose up from deep within him as he leaned into the other man, the full length of their bodies pressed against one another. One of Francis's hands had moved to slip into James's hair, holding onto him as if to keep him from escaping, while the other slid slowly down his back, looping around his waist and pulling him tightly against himself. 

James broke the kiss, breathless, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and red, searching the other man's face for any sign that he wished for him to stop. "Francis…" he breathed, but Francis only nodded. His fingers moved to James's uniform, quickly pulling open the shiny brass buttons until his jacket finally slipped free and was tossed aside. Then his hands were slipping under the shirt beneath, fingertips gliding over the smooth skin of his stomach, making James shiver, eyes slipping closed with a soft gasp. 

Both men understood what was happening. Both knew the consequences of such an action. Both had decided that it didn't matter. None of it mattered except that moment and the overwhelming _need_. James pressed his hips forward against Francis's so that he could feel the evidence of his desire, and Francis groaned. 

"Good God, James…" he gasped. "Bedroom. Now."

Somehow, they managed to stumble into the bedroom, neither willing to break contact as they moved, James staggering backward while Francis kissed him, their hands clumsily moving over each other's bodies, freeing them of their clothing as best they could. When they reached the bed, they paused to kick off their boots, and then James's hands were at Francis's waist, unbuttoning his pants. He could feel Francis's very solid erection inside his trousers, and he palmed it through the fabric, rubbing the heel of his palm down the shaft and curling his fingers to trace the underside of his sac. Francis trembled and let out a strangled whimper that made James feel like his insides were on fire. He shoved Francis's pants down and pulled him toward the bed, their mouths once again pressed together, James's tongue in his mouth, claiming him, Francis wrapping his arms around James as tightly as he could. He pushed Francis down on the bed and climbed over him, lowering his pelvis so that their now-bared twin arousals were pressed against one another. His lips went to Francis's throat, the tip of his tongue teasing his throbbing pulse point and then laying a string of kisses down his neck and across his chest. Francis's hands were at his back, then in his hair again, then grasping at his ass and the backs of his thighs. James felt his sensory system shift into overdrive, and he was sure that he was practically on the verge of climax already. 

It occurred to him only now, that he had never been with a man before, and he had no idea how it would even work, anatomically. Judging by the throbbing of his own arousal, he was fairly sure he wouldn't get that far, anyway. Rolling onto his side, he pulled Francis close and wrapped his long fingers around both their lengths at once. Francis groaned against his mouth, and for a moment James hesitated, unsure of himself. 

"If you stop now, James, I shall administer the cat o' nine tails myself," Francis said, and James had to chuckle. 

"I serve at your command, Captain Crozier," he said, and then kissed him again. He looped one leg over Francis's and began to stroke them both as they kissed. Francis was bigger than he'd anticipated, but he managed to keep them both in his grip, making long strokes from base to tip, then alternating quick, hard strokes with longer, more languid ones. He felt Francis tense, his erection swelling, rock hard beneath his fingers, and he knew that he was close. This realization was all it took to push him to the brink, and he tightened his grip, pumping them quickly until they were both bucking into his hand and against each other, clinging to one another, crying out together. 

Finally, they collapsed, utterly spent, but utterly sated, gasping and panting for breath, both covered in a light sheen of perspiration. James pulled Francis close and stroked his hair, holding him until their hearts had stopped pounding and their breath became even and steady. James could not remember a time when he had felt so at peace. He pressed his lips to Francis's forehead, breathing in the scent of his hair, his sweat, his skin. One hand meandered down Francis's side, resting at his hip before returning to drape casually around his waist. 

James had a vague notion that he ought to feel embarrassed or ashamed, but all he could muster the energy to feel was bliss. It was the closest thing to happiness that he'd felt in a very, very long time.

"I do hope," he now whispered, "that this actually was what you wanted from me, Francis." 

Francis laughed, lifting his face to look at James. "Yes, James," he said. "But if I ever catch you regaling a crowd with this particular tale, I shall be very cross with you, indeed."

James grinned. "I'll bear that in mind," he said, and leaned in to press a kiss to the tip of Francis's nose. 

They lay silent for several minutes, simply enjoying the the warmth of each other’s arms and the sound of each other’s heartbeat and deep, steady breaths.

Francis broke the silence. "What do we do now, James?"

James considered this for a moment. "I suppose you go home, so as not to raise suspicions."

"That isn't what I meant, James," Francis said, propping himself up on one elbow. "And if you think I'm leaving now, then you are sadly mistaken."

James smiled. "Well, then, I think we should proceed with caution. But... tomorrow. I'm much too tired now to think about such things. And besides, whatever happens tomorrow, let us enjoy this night together."

"That I can do," Francis said, resting his head on the pillow again and wriggling closer to James. 

"Good night, Francis," James said softly.

"Good night, James."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time coming, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> I will be traveling to visit family for the holiday beginning tomorrow, so I'm not likely to be able to update until the weekend at the earliest. I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving, and that this chapter, in particular, will be able to hold you over until I return! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! xoxox


	17. Save a Prayer

> "Try to hold the rising floods that fill my skin
> 
> Don't ask me why I'll keep my promise
> 
> Melt the ice
> 
> And you wanted to dance so I asked you to dance ...
> 
> Some people call it a one night stand
> 
> But we can call it paradise  
  
Don't say a prayer for me now
> 
> Save it 'til the morning after"
> 
> \--Duran Duran, "Save a Prayer"

######  _Francis _

The sun was already high in the sky when Francis opened his eyes. The first thought to cross his mind upon waking was that he had overslept, but then he registered how warm and comfortable he felt, and thought that was probably the reason he had slept so late. It was only then that he became aware that there was an arm slung over his waist, and a warm body nestled up to his back. He could feel someone's breath tickling the back of his neck and little by little, Francis remembered where he was, and who was lying in bed behind him. 

_ Oh, hell… _

Slowly, so as not to wake his sleeping companion, Francis rolled over to face James. He shifted a little at being jostled by the movement, but did not wake. Francis remembered the night, not so long ago, when James had awakened with some horrible nightmare. He remembered the morning after, when he'd wakened to find James snuggled against his chest, and he'd felt compelled to touch his face. He remembered the way his body had responded. It all made sense now - his yearning to be near James, his feelings of jealousy, the kiss they'd shared on the night of the accident… 

Of course, this was not the first time Francis had considered the possibility that he was sexually attracted to Fitzjames, but it was the first time he had absolutely no leg to stand on in his stubborn denial of that attraction. Even now, by the light of day, Francis could not deny the way his heart swelled as he watched James's peacefully sleeping face. His lashes fluttered slightly as his eyes jiggled beneath their lids. He was dreaming, Francis realized. He wondered what dream he was having now. Were his dreams all filled with horror and sadness, or did some shine with hope? Did he dream of Francis? 

James looked like an angel, tranquil and beautiful in his stillness. The lines that etched his face in waking were smoothed in slumber, his lips slightly parted and a wisp of black satin hair drifted across one cheek. Francis wanted to kiss him - not just his lips, but his nose and his eyelids and the soft lines that creased his forehead. He wanted to kiss other parts of him, as well… He remembered what they'd done the night before, and felt his body responding. He wanted to do that again… 

But did he dare? Surely, they would not be able to carry on any kind of sexual relationship long-term. Could they? They would be hanged if they were found out. And what of Sophia? He would have to give her some excuse to break off their engagement… Did he _ want _ to break off their engagement? The thought made him feel anxious and confused. Yes, he wanted James. He could no longer deny that longing. But did he not also want Sophia? And if he wanted them both, but had to choose one, would it not be the rational thing to choose the one with whom the law would not find fault? 

An overwhelming sadness filled his chest, threatening to spill out of him in a torrential wave of despair. Why could nothing ever come simply for him? It just didn't seem fair. 

"James…" he whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from James's face.

James grimaced slightly as his eyes fluttered open. He looked disoriented at first, but then his gaze fell on Francis, and he smiled, and the sight of that smile was enough to melt Francis's heart. "Good morning, Francis," he said with gravel in his voice. He swept his fingers lightly up Francis's back, making him shiver. 

"Morning, James," Francis replied, returning the smile with one of his own. "I think we've overslept," he said, gesturing toward the window. 

James's eyes reluctantly left Francis and looked outside, and it was then that Francis saw the dawning realization there. Never before had he known a man with such expressive eyes. It was as though James could project his own depth of feeling onto everyone else in a room.

"Thank you for staying, Francis," he said. "I… hope you do not regret what transpired last night."

"Of course not," Francis said quickly. He was relieved to find that this was absolutely true. "Not at all, James. But… we should discuss how we plan to deal with it in the days to come." These words had an awful effect on James's demeanor, and the sadness that shone in his dark eyes broke Francis's heart. He was so angry with himself in that moment, for hurting his friend. Angry at himself for not being faithful to his fiancee. Angry at himself for not bringing every man back from the Arctic alive and well, and for every other mistake he'd made over the course of his life.

"Must we, Francis?" James asked. 

"I do think it is necessary," he replied. "Though I do not relish the prospect, myself."

"I suppose you are right," James said with a sigh, rolling away from Francis to lie on his back.

The absolute dejection in his voice and on his face was more than Francis could bear. He felt it too, but what could he do? There were certain things that simply could not be. Weren't there? And yet, he wondered… was it absolutely necessary to have the conversation at once? They had already spent the night together. Would a few more minutes truly do any harm?

"James…" Francis reached across to grasp James's shoulder and pull him back to face him again. "Perhaps we could postpone the conversation a little while longer," he said, cradling James's face gently and leaning closer, pressing his lips against the other man's in a tender kiss. 

The night before had been all fire and lust, passion and desperation. Now, as both men accepted what they had done and what they were feeling, they allowed themselves to be vulnerable. Francis slipped his fingers into James's hair as he kissed him slowly, lips parting to allow his tongue to glide lightly over the seam of James's mouth until his lips parted as well. He hooked a leg over James's, pulling their bodies close, and felt that he was not the only one who had been aroused by their close proximity. He let his hand stray from James's face, down his chest to his waist, and then allowed his fingers to lightly graze the tip of James's arousal. 

James shuddered subtly at his touch, but made no move to pull away. His hand had moved to Francis's chest, one thumb strumming over his nipple, his long fingers splayed over his pectoral muscles, curling around his side. Francis whined into his mouth. The man's touch was like liquid fire, setting his body ablaze with desire and pleasure. Could he really live without this, now that he'd felt the effects? The feeling that James could pull from him with a simple touch was more intoxicating than the finest Irish whiskey, and infinitely more pleasurable. That hand was now moving slowly down Francis's stomach, tracing the outline of his hip bone, fingertips breezing down his outer thigh, then back up to his hip. Francis groaned, feeling his own erection throbbing with the need to be touched. As if to hint at this, he wrapped his fingers firmly around James's prick, squeezing lightly and beginning to stroke. 

At the change in pace, James gasped. He broke the kiss and reached for Francis's wrist, stilling his motions. "Don't, Francis," he whispered. "Please don't rush. If this is the be our last time together, then let us enjoy it for as long as it can last." 

Francis was about to protest, that he hadn't said it was to be their last time, but before he could speak, James was kissing him again, and he was melting into the embrace. Slowly, his fingers unfurled and released their hold of James. His own body was still thrumming with need, but he forced himself to breathe deeply and calm himself. James was right. This _ would _have to be their last time together, of course. They both knew it. No matter how strongly they felt for one another, there simply wasn't any way that a romantic entanglement between them could end happily. So then, if this was to be the last time he would enjoy this intimacy with James, then he would damn well enjoy it for as long as he could. 

James gave him a playful shove, rolling Francis onto his back, and then climbed over him. His near-black hair hung down around his face like a dark halo, casting his eyes in shadow, his lips tugged into a wry grin. In that moment, he looked like the young man he had been when they'd first set sail, bound for glory and adventure, before the endless cold and darkness and desperation had aged him beyond his years. He looked exquisitely beautiful.

"James, what are you--" Francis's question was cut short as James lowered himself, pressing his lips to Francis's throat and sucking gently. Francis could feel the blood rushing to the surface and knew the rascal was going to leave a mark. So be it. It would be simple enough to hide behind his cravat. Once satisfied with his work, James moved further down, kissing his chest, then his stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into Francis's belly button, making Francis squirm and whine, his hands rising to grip James by the shoulders. But then James had moved lower still. He was taking Francis into his mouth, and Francis vision faded to black, rockets exploding behind his eyes. 

Francis arched his back, his fingers tangling in James's hair, gripping his curls as if his life depended on it. "Oh sweet mother Mary…" he groaned. "Have you done this before?" It seemed unbelievable that James would inherently know how to do what he was doing - how to move his tongue, his lips...to bob his head like that…

"Mm-ermm," James grunted, unwilling to drop his prize from between his pursed lips. He gave Francis a wink and returned to his work, taking him deep into his mouth, all the way to the back of his throat, and then lifting up. With the tip of his tongue, he teased the head, circling its outer lip and then flicking over the tip, just grazing the slit before plunging down again and bobbing quickly for a few beats. Then he began the entire process over again. 

Francis had his head thrown back in the pillow with his eyes pinched closed. He kept one hand in James's hair, but clutched the bed clothes with his other, his nails digging into the fabric. It was all he could do to keep his hips from bucking wildly, thrusting into James's decadent mouth. Just when he thought he was about to explode, James slowed his movements, easing him back off the brink once, twice... until Francis was squirming beneath him, nearly near losing his mind with the need for release. 

"Oh God...James...please…" he gasped, his body writhing in desperation. Finally, James surrendered to Francis's pleas. His lips tightened around him, his tongue flattened against the shaft and sucking lightly as he bobbed his head faster. Francis felt his entire body go tense with his impending orgasm, the pressure in his core building to a nearly unbearable bearable degree.

The climax hit Francis with the force of a steam locomotive, his back arching off the bed, the sheer force of it sending a single tear running down both sides of his face as he cried out. He'd never felt anything so strong in his entire life, and he trembled and twitched as James slowed his pace, allowing Francis to ride out the orgasm without overstimulating him. 

Once it was over, Francis felt as though he'd just run a marathon. His breath was ragged, heart pounding out of his chest. But he couldn't stop. He couldn't allow James to bring him to such a glorious climax without returning the favor. His mind scrambled. He couldn't possibly compete with what James had just done with his mouth. So what, then? He had no idea what James would like or dislike, and he suddenly felt unsure of himself. 

As if reading his thoughts, James gave Francis a grin and said, "Now you may continue what you started earlier, Francis." 

Francis didn't need to be asked twice. The two of them rolled together onto their sides and Francis quickly gripped James's erection. He gasped softly as his fingers curled around the shaft. James was rock hard, and he could feel the pulse of blood throbbing beneath his fingers. "James…" he breathed. He wanted to kiss him, but he was out of breath, so instead he held his gaze as he pumped him, slowly at first, but quickening as soon as he realized that James was already about to burst.

At the moment of climax, James's eyes closed and his expression shifted to one of complete bliss. He clung tightly to Francis, his fingers pressing pink marks into the Irishman's pale skin. He did not cry out as Francis had done, but his mouth opened and his head tipped back gracefully, neck bared, panting softly, his body going rigid as he released. The sight was so erotic that Francis thought he might climax again without James even touching him. But then it was over, and James was clinging to him, pulling him back into a desperate kiss, their arms and legs tangled up in one another's, bodies pressed tightly together. When, at last, the kiss was broken, they lay still, holding each other, sharing each other's breath, hearts beating in time, and shedding silent tears.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to publish a short snippet (which basically amounted to gratuitous smut), to thank you for your patience and to get me back into the groove of writing and publishing after my vacation travels. I hope you enjoyed this little mini chapter. 
> 
> Let me also remind you that there is going to be a happy ending, even if our boys can't see it just now. This is not the end of the story! <3
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'll update again soon! xo


	18. Daylight

######  _ James _

The pair of them must have fallen asleep in each other's arms again, after the morning's activities, because when James next opened his eyes, the sun was at its highest point in the sky and his back felt stiff and sore from lying in bed for so long. He glanced down at Francis, who was nestled against his chest and sighed resignedly. Had he been a fool to go as far as they had that morning? The ache in his chest made him think that it might have been easier if they had not shared those moments of intimacy. Yes, they had tumbled into bed together the previous night, and shared in a few moments of pleasure, but this morning had been different - slow, tender… _ intentional _ . 

Physical necessity forced James up from the bed to use the chamber pot, and he couldn't help waking Francis in the process of squirming out of his grasp. He wished he could have just stayed there, but he pulled himself up and stepped over to the wash stand, quickly grabbing his dressing gown off the hook and slipping into it as he went. 

"What time is it?" Francis mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as he propped himself up on one elbow. 

"If I'm not mistaken, it's past noon," James said over his shoulder. 

"Damn it," growled Francis, sitting up in bed and stretching. 

James wondered what he was thinking of. Did he have somewhere to be? Did he regret what they'd done? They had never actually gotten around to discussing what had happened, though he was fairly sure they both knew what must be done: this could never be allowed to happen again. Ever. 

"Have you missed a previous engagement?" James asked, turning back to the bed and pulling the robe closed over his chest, cinching the sash tight around his waist. 

Francis dragged himself from the bed and walked over to the chamber pot, apparently not caring at all that his nakedness was fully on display. James couldn't help letting his eyes drift slowly over his body, taking in the constellations of freckles that were strewn over his shoulders, trailing down his shoulder blades and over his backside. His physique was pleasing; there was a certain softness to him - all rounded edges - but not overweight. He was just the right shape for cuddling. James tore his gaze away ruefully and looked out the window. 

"No, not as such," Francis said, answering the question only after he'd finished emptying his bladder. "Although I have no doubt that by this time, Sir James Ross will be wondering where I've gone. There will be no sneaking in at the break of dawn." He gave a slouchy shrug as he turned and began collecting his clothing from the floor. "I suppose I may tell him I spent the night here without him being any the wiser regarding our… activities." 

James nodded, trying not to feel hurt by the way Francis, in so few words, had somehow managed to make the act feel dirty and vile. Of course, that was not entirely fair. James knew as well as Francis did that no one could find out what they'd done. Still, it stung.

"Will you still marry her?" James asked suddenly. The question had seemed to spring off his tongue of its own volition, surprising even himself. He hadn't intended to ask that question - not yet, at least. But he  _ had  _ to know, although he suspected that he knew the answer already, and dreaded hearing it.

Francis returned to the bed and sat beside him, gazing steadily at him with those serene blue eyes, just as he had when James had confided in him about his illegitimacy. He dropped his gaze before answering. 

"I think I must. Yes."

James nodded, stood, and left the room without another word. Of course, he'd known that would probably be the answer, but that did nothing to dull the stab of grief that pierced his heart once that suspicion was confirmed. He considered arguing - that no, Francis wasn't  _ required _ to marry anyone. But what was the use? 

He walked to the kitchen and added a log to the fire, stoking the pile of wood and ash until it was coaxed back to life. He retrieved and filled his tea pot and hung it over the fire. He needed to keep moving - to keep his hands busy with some occupation, or risk breaking down completely. As he busied himself by the fire, he heard the sound of Francis's footfalls, entering the room. He did not turn, for fear of the tears he could already feel threatening to well in his eyes.

"James…" Francis said, stepping up behind him, but James lifted a hand, halting his approach. 

"No, Francis," he said, still not turning. "There's nothing to be said. Nothing to be done. I hold you no grudge, and I trust that you will return the favor for me. We both know that this is how it needs to be. Let us simply accept that fact and move on without the melodrama, yes?"

He heard Francis sigh. "Perhaps it would be best if I go home," Francis said. 

"I think perhaps that would be best, yes," James agreed, hiding his face behind a curtain of dark hair, unwilling to show Francis the tears that had begun to spill down his cheeks. He heard Francis walk to the door and pause there.

"I'm so sorry, James," Francis said, and James could not deny the sadness he heard in that voice. "I truly am."

Finally, James turned his head, but all he saw was the door closing behind Francis as he left. He stood still, silently listening to the sound of retreating footsteps, hoping against all odds that Francis would turn around and come back and tell him that he'd been wrong - that they could be together, and that he would never leave again. But this did not happen. Instead, he listened as Francis descended the stairs, and then the front door slammed closed behind him. 

A visceral, guttural sound clawed its way up from deep in James's chest, beginning as a low growl and crescendoing into a shout of fury as he flung out an arm and swept it across the top of the kitchen table, sending unlit tapers and their brass candlesticks hurtling off the table and clattering to the floor. One of the candles rolled along the uneven floorboards with a rhythmic thumping sound, coming to rest at his foot. With all his might, he kicked it, swearing as his bare toe connected with the cold, hard brass. It might have been broken, but he didn't care. The pain in his toe at least dulled the piercing pain in his chest that threatened to engulf him absolutely. Finally, he crumpled slowly to the floor in a heap, cradling his head in his hands, and wept.

***

######  _ Francis _

Francis somehow managed to stagger back to the Ross home, even though his head was throbbing. The sun was unforgiving in its brightness, and the weather was unseasonably warm. He felt that he wanted to lie in a bath of ice cold water for the remainder of the day and possibly through the night as well. In lieu of a cold bath, perhaps he could simply submerge his head in ice water for a few minutes. Anything to distract from the throbbing ache in his head and in his chest. 

He had thought that he and James were of the same mindset regarding what had happened between them. James had said as much, in fact. They both knew that there could be no future for them together, so what did it matter what Francis did with his own life? He had expected James to be somewhat irritated by his decision to carry on with his engagement. It was becoming obvious that James was not fond of Sophia. But he had not expected such a display of emotion. It had jarred him, and had resulted in making him feel all the more wretched. Perhaps it would have been better if they had simply discussed their situation and parted ways early that morning, instead of… well, instead of what they had actually done. 

The memory of James hovering over him, dipping down to take him into his mouth… the sensations he had evoked with those lips...that tongue... and then the look on James's face as he'd met his climax. It was all too much. They'd only been apart for a few minutes, and already Francis ached to be back in his arms. 

Maybe James was right, and he was just being melodramatic. It didn't matter, regardless. He felt what he felt. He simply didn't know what to  _ do _ about it. And what about their friendship? Francis didn't think he could carry on without having James in his life in some capacity. Could they find a way to enjoy a platonic relationship, even after everything that had happened between them? Francis had no answers. Only questions, questions, and more questions, and the nagging pain in his heart. 

"There you are at last, old man!" Sir James Clark Ross nearly tackled Francis as he stepped in the front door. "Where in blazes have you been? Ann and I have been worried sick, not to mention your fiancee! Sophia was here this morning. She departed only an hour ago, but left her calling card. She asked that you pay her a visit as soon as you are able."

Francis was in no mood to be scolded, nagged, or chided. The throbbing behind his temples intensified as Sir James spoke, and it took every ounce of his strength to keep from punching him in the face. He knew this was irrational. His friend was only worried for him, and of course Sophia would have been concerned, after they'd parted on less than ideal terms the night before. He felt a wave of shame wash over him at the memory of the whiskey he'd poured into his coffee cup. 

"I'm sorry, James," Francis finally said, once the general commotion had subsided. "I was unwell last night. Captain Fitzjames caught up with me and I passed the night at his flat. I must have overslept this morning, as you can see. But I'm here now and all is well." This last statement could not have been farther from the truth, but it seemed to placate his friend, at least for the moment. 

"I truly am sorry if I worried you. That was not my intent. But now I need to wash up and change clothes. I will call on Sophia, if she wishes it."

***

Francis was glad that it wasn't Marianne who answered the door when he arrived at Sophia's house that afternoon. This was a different servant, who Francis didn't recognize. Fortunately, she did not question him on whether or not he was expected. He didn't think he could have handled that interrogation again. Perhaps Sophia had told the girl that he might be coming. He didn't ask, and she didn't volunteer the information.

His headache had finally begun to subside, and he'd been trying very hard not to think about Fitzjames. This, of course, had the exact opposite effect, and he'd thought of little else. He fervently hoped that seeing Sophia would distract him from those thoughts. 

Hearing her footsteps, Francis looked up in time to see her gracefully descending the grand stairway as if floating on a cloud from the heavens. Reaching the bottom, she surprised him by hurrying to greet Francis and throwing her arms around his neck. 

"Oh, Francis," she gasped, a little more dramatically than he thought was strictly reasonable. "I was so worried about you! When I called on you this morning and you weren't at home, I didn't know what to think! I was afraid you'd stumbled into the road and been hit by a carriage, or fell into a ditch and broken your leg on your way home last night."

Francis stifled the urge to roll his eyes as he pulled away to look into her face. "I'm fine, Sophia. Look at me. See? I'm perfectly well. And besides, I wasn't as drunk as all that last night. Believe me, I've had many more drinks than that in my system and still managed to carry myself home in years past." 

Sophia looked unconvinced. "But where  _ were  _ you? Where did you go? Sir James said you never made it home last night."

He frowned, wondering how many others had observed his unceremonious departure from the party, and whether he had really been that far gone as to cause so much concern. He gave Sophia the same explanation that he had given James Ross just an hour or so before, and Sophia appeared to accept this account as plausible enough. 

Sophia took him by the hand and led him into the parlor, where they sat by the fire. Francis wished they could sit somewhere else. It was too warm for a fire, as far as he was concerned, but Sophia didn't seem bothered by the heat. They sat silently for several moments, watching the dancing flames. Francis's mind wandered back to that morning, and he cringed, at his treacherous thoughts.

"I do believe the dinner party was a success, despite your earlier departure," Sophia said, breaking the silence and causing Francis to flinch. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Francis thought the party had been an absolute horror show, but he didn't say so. "Yes, it was lovely," he lied.

"Francis, darling, you seem distracted. Are you sure you're feeling alright?" Sophia cast a worried look over his features, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable under her scrutiny, as if Sophia might be able to read his thoughts, and he would be found out.

"I'm sorry, Sophia. I'm afraid I'm still not quite myself. Falling bit under the weather, I think." It was not a complete lie, he reasoned. He truly was feeling awful.

"Poor dear," she cooed, smoothing his hair from his face. "Well, I won't keep you away from home for too long, in that case. But, oh, I  _ am  _ glad that you are safe. Please thank Sir James for passing on the message, will you?"

"Of course, I shall," said Francis. He felt unreasonably relieved to be leaving so soon, though perhaps he was merely anxious to get away from that confounded fire. He stood to his feet and she followed suit, leading him back the way they had come, to the front door. She paused there before opening it. 

"Captain Fitzjames has been a good friend to you, hasn't he?" 

Francis inhaled so sharply that he nearly choked on his own saliva. He felt his cheeks darken, and prayed that she wouldn't notice. "He has, yes," Francis said, trying to get his runaway emotions under check. "A good friend, indeed. I hope that I may be as good a friend to him in the future."

"No doubt you already have been," she said. 

Francis studied her, trying to ascertain whether there was more meaning behind her words than the obvious. He decided that there was not. After all, why would Sophia ever suspect such a thing? She lifted herself onto her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, and he bowed to her politely before taking his leave.

***

When Francis returned home, he was greeted by one of the Rosses' serving staff, bearing a written message addressed to him. He thanked the girl and took the envelope, retreating to his rooms to open it at his leisure. He sat down at the desk by the window and turned the envelope over in his hand. It was crafted of creamy, heavy paper, addressed with a flowing script, and when he turned it over and saw the return address, his heart skipped a beat. The message had come from the Admiralty.

Suddenly anxious, Francis tore open the envelope and removed the card from inside. The message was simple and brief:

  
  


> To Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier
> 
> c/o Sir James Clark Ross
> 
> You are hereby requested to appear before the Admiralty Board on Thursday, 
> 
> the Seventeenth December at twelve o'clock. Please arrive promptly.
> 
> Cordially,
> 
> Henry George Ward
> 
> First Secretary to the Admiralty
> 
> Her Majesty's Naval Service
> 
> United Kingdom Ministry of Defence

Francis felt a lump form in his throat as he read and reread the message, trying to divine some sort of meaning from the words on the paper. His first thought had been one of panic, that they had someone found out what he and James had done, and were summoning him for punishment. But surely, that was impossible! Even if they could somehow find out, there would be no way they could have moved so quickly in response. No, it had to be something else, but what? It could be very good, or utterly devastating. The letter gave no clue either way. 

Francis glanced over to the calendar on the wall. The 17th of December was in two days' time. He just might go mad between now and then, with curiosity and paranoia. He stood, shoving the chair back from the desk as he did so, and quickly made his way downstairs. In the drawing room, he found his host and hostess, sitting quietly together, Sir James reading and Lady Ann working over some form of needle craft. 

"James, do you know anything about this?" he asked, brandishing the message in his hand as he stepped into the room. 

Sir James squinted at the letter, then looked at Francis. "Should I?" he asked. Then he added, "Oh, yes. I do remember a message coming for you. I left it with Clara to deliver to you, when you returned. I see she has fulfilled that task."

"It's a summons from the Admiralty," Francis said, unwilling to be led off topic. He was trying to keep his voice calm, but failing. "I don't suppose you have any idea what it is that they are summoning me for?"

Sir James Ross leaned back in his chair and regarded Francis was a cryptic half smile. "Why, my dear Francis, I do believe you are asking me to divulge Admiralty secrets concerning state matters. You know I can not do that."

Francis stomped his foot like a petulant child. "Damn it, James! Be straight with me. Am I to be arrested? Demoted? Is it bad news that awaits me?"

At this, James stood and crossed the room to lay a hand lightly on Crozier's shoulder. "My dear old friend," he said softly, "do you not think that, if that were the case, I would have warned you?" 

Francis breathed out a sigh. "I'm sorry, James. I'm just a little… I'm not quite myself lately. Forgive me."

Sir James patted him on the shoulder and smiled. "Don't worry, old man," he said. "I have been sworn to secrecy on the matter, but I can tell you without hesitation that you are not to be reprimanded, punished, imprisoned, or the like."

Francis felt his whole body relax at these words. Finally, something good. "Then it's good news," he said, looking for any kind of confirmation. 

Sir James grinned at him and gave him a wink. "I have no idea what you mean," he said, and turned to walk back to his chair. "Will you have a cup of tea with us?"

"Thank-you, but no," Francis said, folding the note from the Admiralty and slipping it into his pocket. "There are some things I must attend to before supper." He turned to go, but paused before taking his leave. "Thank-you, James. You are a true friend."

"As are you, Francis," James replied with a warm smile. "Now go on. I'll not have you late for supper."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is that I am so very sorry you just had to read this. I depressed myself writing it. But thank you for reading! <3


	19. The Stranger

######  _ Francis _

Francis spent the majority of his time over the next two days locked in his rooms. He hardly dared to form any kind of idea or hope as to what the Admiralty might be planning for him. Sir James had as good as told him that it was to be good news - a knighthood? A pay rise? Some public or military medal of honor? It could be nearly anything. He ached to speak to James about it - to find out whether he had also received a similar message - but he didn't dare go to his flat. Not yet. Not while the pain of their parting was still so raw. 

James Fitzjames inhabited Francis's mind at nearly all hours of the day and night. He thought of him in waking and dreamed of him in sleep. He could smell the ghost of his aftershave in the room with him - could hear the echo of his rugged baritone voice. He could feel James's hands, inexplicably soft and smooth on his skin. It was maddening, pure and simple, and Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier was slowly succumbing to that madness. He rarely thought of Sophia anymore, and when he did, the thought of her filled him with dread more often than with desire. Yet he had pledged himself to be her husband, and especially now that they had made the engagement public knowledge, he could not break that promise without grave consequences. He mentally castigated himself for pushing her to make the announcement so soon. She had wanted him to wait. Why had he insisted?

Francis knew, in his logical mind, that it would be better for him to go out and be among other people, to take his mind off of James, and Sophia, and the impending Admiralty appearance, but he simply couldn't muster the energy to do it. He was a solitary man by nature, and even more so when his mood was bleak, as it was then. What was the use in trying? If he couldn't see James, he didn't want to see anyone. 

Instead, he poured himself into his writing. The act of recalling and recording those dark memories was very near to torture, but it was the one thing that engrossed his whole mind and heart, and it mercifully passed the time. Ironically, remembering their time in the Arctic made him feel closer to James, at least for as long as it took to write it down. But when he was forced to stop writing, the throbbing pain of loneliness returned, so he spent every waking moment writing that he could, pausing only to take his meals. In the evening, he remained at his desk, bent over his manuscript until his head began to nod and his eyes began to droop, and his pen had lost its will to write words and was, instead, leaving jagged inky gashes on the page. Only then would he strip off his clothes and collapse into bed.

When the day of the summons finally arrived, Francis took great care in arranging his appearance to the highest degree of professional perfection. Whatever was to come, he wanted to look the part. He knew that he ought to feel nervous. Indeed, he had feared that his nerves would run thin in the waiting, but now that the moment had arrived, he found that he hardly cared what they would tell him. He just wanted to go back to his room, lock the door, and lose himself to his memories. 

Since Sir James Ross was a member of the Admiralty Board, they rode together in James's barouche. The journey was a short one, and was spent mostly in silence, with Francis staring out the window, lost to his thoughts. He was finally beginning to feel the first stirrings of butterflies in his stomach, but it had very little to do with what the Admiralty might say to him, and everything to do with the possibility that James Fitzjames might also have been summoned to appear before them today. 

Francis imagined what he would do if James was there when he arrived. Would he be able to act casually, despite the way his heart would doubtless be galloping out of his chest? He envisioned the scene as in a fairy tale, wherein he entered the building and saw James across the room, standing straight and tall like the prince that he was. Their eyes would meet, and there would be instant understanding between them, as Francis ran to him and hurled himself into James's open arms, kissing him full on the mouth and not caring a fig for the gawkers around them.

Francis sighed deeply, and Sir James leaned forward, gently touching his knee to gain his attention. "Don't despair, old friend," he said. 

Francis patted his hand and gave him a reassuring smile. "I do not despair, James," he said, though his tone of voice was not particularly convincing. "I was only thinking of the men…" He let the phrase hang between them, purposely not specifying to which men he was referring.

"You mustn't punish yourself, Francis," Sir James said warmly. "You did all you could."

"Did I, James?" Francis asked, suddenly fully present in the context of his lost crewmen. "There is  _ always _ more that one can do. I could have insisted that we take further precautions. I could have commanded my own ship, at least, to make port for the winter, even if Erebus went ahead without us."

James Ross shook his head. "You would have been court-martialed for certain, and found guilty of multiple charges. You would have lost your position - possibly your very  _ life. _ You would have lost  _ everything _ if you had disobeyed Sir John's orders."

"I would not have lost the  _ men _ ! What do I care for my position? What good is  _ my  _ life, that I should live and those men should die? Some of them were but young boys, James. Scarce more than children. They had their whole lives ahead of them. Would not the lives of those men have been worth me losing my  _ position,  _ or even my life?"

"You don't know that, Francis," James argued. "You cannot think that way. You cannot know what  _ would _ have happened. Even if you had commanded the Terror to make port that winter, we can not know how that winter might have passed. There could have been an outbreak of influenza or some other horrific disease known only to the Arctic waste. Perhaps wild animals would have decimated the crew. Who knows whether a massive storm might have made landfall and destroyed your camp, or even your ship? There are a million and one things that  _ might _ have happened. It's no use tormenting yourself with what  _ might  _ have been."

Francis shook his head sadly, his gaze fixed on the large stone building they were approaching. "I suppose you're right," he conceded. "But even so… I  _ do  _ wonder what might have been."

"That is because you are a good man, Francis. A good Captain. It is because you love your men, as a good Captain should."

_ More than God loves them… _ Francis remembered James saying. 

_ Oh, James… _

Francis turned back to his friend and gave him a weary smile. "Thank-you," he said softly. "I may be a stubborn, sour old man, but your words are a balm to my soul, even if I don't show it."

"I only want you to be happy, Francis. I would have you be free of this burden that weighs you down. But I know that you will not allow it to be lifted until you feel you have made recompense. I only pray that you will find peace sooner, rather than later, old friend. Yes, men were lost. But  _ you _ are alive, and whether you feel that blessing is deserved or not is irrelevant. You must honor the dead by living your life to the full."

Francis replayed these words over in his mind as the two of them stepped down from the carriage and went inside. Sir James slipped into the private conference chambers of the Admiralty Board through a back door, while Francis made his way to the waiting room, his pulse quickening with anticipation at the possibility of seeing Fitzjames there. But when he entered the room, there was no one there. Francis was alone, and he felt himself sag under the realization. The last time he had been in that room, he and James had received their pardons, together. How foolish he had been at that time, to not have realized the depth of feeling he had for the other man.

His thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the heavy wooden doors swinging open. Francis drew in a deep breath and pulled himself up to his full height before walking into the room. The scene was nearly identical to his previous visit, save for the lack of James's presence at his side. He took his seat in the spot where James had sat before, and waited for the men at the other end of the table to address him.

"Captain Crozier, thank you for coming," John Barrow said in his pinched voice. Francis could barely stand the sound of it. "Let us come straight to the point, shall we? As you know, high level promotions within the Royal Navy take place only under certain circumstances, namely when the death of a flag officer leaves a vacancy. Furthermore, you are well aware that your commanding officer, Rear Admiral Sir John Franklin was killed in the line of duty, on the very expedition from which you have returned, victorious."

Francis squirmed in his seat. He was barely able to take in the words being spoken, let alone make any inferences regarding the things left unsaid. "Yes, Sir," he said, when Barrow paused long enough for his acknowledgement.

"The Admiralty Board has been in conference regarding this matter since the resolution of your court-martial, and we have summoned you here today to inform you of our decision to offer you a promotion. If you accept, you will hitherto be granted the rank of Rear Admiral of the Blue."

Francis blinked, hardly believing what he'd just heard. Promotions within the Royal Navy were, in nearly  _ every _ instance, based solely on seniority, and he knew that there were other Navy Captains who had served longer than he. What they were suggesting was a great honor.

"Well? What have you to say for yourself?" Barrow asked. Francis felt the weight of every pair of eyes on him. He looked at his friend, James Ross, who was beaming at him. James's uncle, Sir John Ross, looked equally supportive but infinitely more somber. Francis knew he had seen some horrors in his day as well. The rest of the men looked vaguely disinterested, as if they were more concerned about the afternoon meals they would be partaking in after these proceedings had been completed. 

"What  _ can _ I say?" Francis replied, still in a state of mild shock. "I am honored and humbled beyond words. But if I should accept this promotion, will that necessitate that I immediately take on a new commission? I had hoped to spend some time on land before returning to sea."

"It will not be necessary for you to take a commission  _ immediately _ , but you will be expected to resume active duty within a reasonable period of time," Barrow said. 

Francis noted that the term "reasonable period of time" was far from specific and hugely subjective. Still, he was just about to gratefully accept when a thought occurred to him. 

"What about Captain Fitzjames?"

The men of the Board looked at him blankly. "What about him?" one of them said.

"I had thought that, if I were to be promoted, then Fitzjames would also be promoted. We shared command of the expedition, even though he was technically my Second."

Barrow scowled down the table at him. "Commander Fitzjames's career is none of your concern. You will leave that to the Admiralty Board to decide."

Francis's brow furrowed as he considered this. He wasn't exactly surprised at John Barrow's stubborn defiance and refusal to answer his question, but it still irritated him. "I wonder if I may have a few days' time to consider it," he said. He could practically feel the heat radiating from Barrow's glare. Clearly, a request of this nature was highly irregular.

"Captain Crozier, are we led to believe that you are making light of the Board's decision?" he hissed.

"Not at all, Sir John. However, as you may recall, I am engaged to be married. I would hate to accept such a promotion, only to be forced to abandon my new bride after our wedding day. I would like to discuss the matter with her before I accept your kind proposal. Is that acceptable?"

There was a low murmur from the other end of the table. Apparently, this issue had never arisen in the time that these men had governed the Admiralty. This gave Francis a twisted sort of thrill as he watched them bicker between one another. After a few long moments, John Barrow addressed him again, his frown now deeper than ever.

"Very well," he said, though it appeared to cause him physical pain to do so. "You may have until Monday next, at which time you will return to us with your decision. Will that suffice?" It was impossible to miss the sarcasm held in this last question.

"Indeed it shall," Francis said, giving them his most winning smile. 

"Then we will adjourn until such time. You will report here at eight o'clock Monday morning. Good day."

***

Francis sat beside Sophia Cracroft on a marble bench in the gardens behind the Franklin home. He had waited until the day following his appearance before the Admiralty to speak with her, thinking that a night's sleep might help clear his mind and heart on the matter. However, upon waking that morning, he'd felt no less certain. Francis knew that he ought to be overjoyed by the promotion he was set to receive. After all, there was no denying the magnitude of the gesture. Yet he could not seem to bring himself to care. 

"And they've offered you a promotion to the rank of Rear Admiral?" Sophia was saying, her face positively lit up with delighted excitement at the news he'd just shared with her.

"Yes, but you must remember that, should I accept this position, I will be expected to return to sea at the Admiralty's behest. They may call me away at any time, up to and including the moment after we've been wed."

Francis saw some emotion flicker in Sophia's eyes, but he was unable to read the exact nature of it. Her mouth was drawn into a frown, though, and she said nothing.

"Only a few days ago, you made it clear that you wanted me to fulfill my matrimonial duties. How can I be a good husband to you if I am away at sea for years at a time?"

Sophia seemed to consider this, and then, to Francis's absolute astonishment, said, "But surely the Admiralty would continue to send your salary to your wife while you were away?"

Francis scoffed, sure that he had misunderstood her meaning. "Well, yes, doubtless they would, but Sophia, as you know there is more to the role of a husband than  _ financial  _ support for his family. I would miss you dearly. Would you not also miss me?"

Sophia turned slightly, looking out over the rose bushes, now reduced to jagged branches jutting up from the ground, waiting for spring to revive them. They seemed a good representation of the way Francis felt. 

"It isn't as though you would not return, Francis," she said. 

Francis had no words in reply. What she said was logical enough, although he could argue that his return was definitely  _ not _ guaranteed. Yet even assuming that her statement was true, surely in matters of the heart, logic must always bend the knee to feeling and passion. There was no passion in Sophia's voice or in her eyes. He wondered whether she even loved him at all. There had been a fire in her belly when he'd first returned from the Arctic. He'd felt it that first night, when they'd made love. But now it seemed that something, or someone, had smothered that fire with a wet blanket, leaving nothing but soggy ash and the occasional puff of steam-blended smoke. 

"I take it, then, that you desire for me to accept the promotion," he said.

Sophia turned back to him and her face was once again animated, shifting as suddenly as if she were removing a mask. Or putting one on. Francis wondered which face was her true one, and which was the mask. It was chilling to see how quickly and effortlessly she could switch personas.

"I do," she said.

"Very well," Francis said, more as an acceptance of their conversation's conclusion than acceptance of the promotion itself. 

***

As Francis walked back toward his temporary home, he felt an icy chill snaking through his body, just under the skin, as if his blood had turned cold. There could be no denying, now, that Sophia did not truly love for him. She might love him in a sense, but if so, it was the most superficial form of love, and certainly not the kind he had always dreamed of sharing with her. He felt empty, as if someone had scooped out his insides like a gourd. How long had she felt this way? Or rather,  _ not _ felt this way? And how had he been such a fool as to not have seen it before? More to the point, what could he do about it now, after he'd promised to marry her? 

Francis came to a halt after having walked several blocks, lost in his own head. He was hardly surprised to find that he was standing outside the building of James's flat. He gazed up at the window that he knew led to James's bedroom, and immediately felt a gush of emotion pour over him like a flood. He needed to see James, if only for a moment. He wouldn't touch him. Wouldn't even go near him if it came to that. But he just needed to see him - to occupy the same room, just for a few minutes. 

Heaving a great sigh, Francis entered the building and climbed the stairs, each one feeling like a small mountain to scale. Finally, he stood outside James's door and lifted the knocker. He heard a faint voice, as if from a great distance, call out from inside. 

"Who's there?" 

Francis almost didn't speak. He feared that even if he opened his mouth, no sound would come out. His heart was racing faster than the human heart ever ought to beat, and he felt lightheaded. 

The voice from inside, closer now, repeated its inquiry. "Who is it?"

"F-Francis," he stammered. He cleared his throat and spoke again, more clearly. "James, it's Francis. Please let me in. I just want to talk to you."

Silence.

Francis shifted from foot to foot. With each passing moment, he felt his heart sinking lower and lower. He probably deserved this treatment, he rationalized, but that didn't make it any less painful. Just as he was about to accept defeat, turn, and walk away, the door swung open.

James stood there wearing that ratty old sweater. His hair was slightly matted and disheveled, and his face was more deeply etched with lines than ever. He looked miserable, and Francis wondered whether he'd slept at all since they'd parted ways. Had he been awakened every night by dreams more horrible than words could describe? The thought made Francis want to cry. More than that, he wanted to fling his arms around the other man and comfort him - take away the pain that Francis knew he had, at least in part, inflicted. But he couldn't move, seemingly frozen to the spot. They held eye contact for several moments before James lowered his gaze and took a step backward, allowing Francis to come inside. 

James's apartment was blazing hot, with an enormous fire burning on the grate, and it was apparent that the housekeeper had not been in for several days. Dirty dishes and mugs were piled on the counter, the couch cushions were all askew, pillows lying on the floor beside it. The floor itself was in need of sweeping and mopping. 

"Come in," James said, moving to the sitting area. Francis noticed that James sat in the arm chair farthest from the sofa, as if to safeguard himself against getting too close. Just as well, he thought. 

"James, I... " Francis tried to collect his thoughts. He hadn't planned to come here at all, and though he had spent nearly every waking moment since their last day together longing to be in James's presence, now that he was here he had no idea what to say. "I've missed you," he finally said.

James looked at him with an unreadable expression. It was as if he'd been lobotomized, his eyes vacant of any emotion at all, let alone the depth of feeling they normally held. His lip curled slightly and he swept the back of a hand across his upper lip, scratching his nose. 

"I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you," he said dryly. Francis winced. This was not going well.

"There's no need for sarcasm," he replied. "I am well aware of the damage I have done. Do you truly believe I have not punished myself every day for what transpired between us? But remember this, James. I was not the only one who acted. You and I are both guilty, and I refuse to shoulder the burden entirely on my own. We both knew what would happen."

"Indeed," James said with a sneer. "But I am not the one who is about to marry a woman I do not love."

Francis balked at him, completely at a loss. Apparently, James had been more attuned to Francis's own feelings than he had, himself. He decided to change tack. 

"I received a message from the Admiralty. Did you also receive a summons?"

This seemed to throw James off. His eyes held a spark of curiosity. "I did not. What did it say?"

Francis wondered whether this had been the best topic he could have brought up after all. He'd been so sure that the Admiralty would have reached out to James in the same way they had to him. 

"They've offered me a promotion, to fill the vacancy left by Sir John."

"Of course they have," James said dismissively, his lip curling in another sneer. Francis had the feeling that he was talking to a complete stranger - an imposter who looked a lot like James, but was inwardly completely different. What had he done? Suddenly, Francis was overcome with the desire to throw himself on his knees at James's feet, to beg his forgiveness, and profess his undying love. He wanted to touch him -  _ needed _ to touch him - to feel his touch again. The need was greater by far than any desire he'd ever felt for Sophia, or even for his beloved whiskey, but he could not make himself move.

Whatever hope Francis had harbored that the two of them could resume a platonic friendship was rapidly being smashed to tiny fragments before his eyes. He realized now that being here, this close to James, and not being able to express his feelings - to touch him, kiss him, hold him - was greater torture by far than being separated by miles. 

"Sophia thinks I should take the promotion, even though it means a certain commission in the near future." 

James tilted his head slightly to one side like an inquisitive dog. Francis continued, "I'm fairly certain that Sophia is primarily interested in my salary, far more than in me."

At this remark, James let out a bark of laughter so sudden and loud that it made Francis jump. For the first time, he wondered whether James was drunk. A cursory glance toward the bar revealed several empty glasses and a nearly empty decanter of brandy. "Oh, James," he said, shaking his head sorrowfully.

"Oh, don't worry, Francis," James replied, having followed his gaze. "I feel perfectly fine. Do you know, I think you might have been on to something, with all your whiskey and brooding. The brandy is the only thing that keeps me sane these days. Funny thing, that. Something as innocuous as a glass of liquid can destroy a man or bring him peace. Well, Francis, you have your medication of choice and I have mine. So go on and marry the woman. She may not love you, but I dare say she'll fulfill her conjugal responsibilities from time to time. Perhaps she'll even squeeze out a few brats for you to bring up as angry half Irish tyrants. It will be the very image of marital bliss!"

Francis had heard enough. He could not find it in himself to be angry. This was not James speaking; it was the brandy. He wondered just how many times he had himself sounded this way on board Terror, when he ought to have been in full command of his faculties, commanding two ships and their crews on that expedition. He stood to his feet and looked James in the face.

"You are not yourself, James," he said softly. "And I will harbor no ill regard toward you. I still have hope that you and I may yet be able to maintain a friendship, but it is clear to me now that we both need more time to heal. I'm sorry if I hurt you. I am truly, deeply sorry. I hope that one day I may make that up to you. But until that time, please believe me when I say that you… that you are…" Francis's voice broke as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He cleared his throat, struggling to regain composure. "You are the dearest friend I have ever had, and if I have destroyed that friendship beyond repair, then there is no punishment on Earth or in Hell that is harsh enough to expunge my guilt."

James stared up at him, his own eyes glistening with tears, but he said nothing. Francis turned and moved to the door, pausing when he heard James clear his throat as if to speak. His voice carried from the chair in which he still sat.

"I loved you, brother," he said somberly. "I always shall."

Francis turned to look at him and nodded as tears ran down his own cheeks, unable to speak. Then he turned and walked out the door, only allowing himself to break down once he'd walked out of view of James's window.


	20. Heart of the Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there's going to be a bit more angst in this chapter, but things will begin to improve very soon. thanks for hanging in there! xo

######  _ James _

James lay in his bed, huddled under the blankets and curled into as tight a ball as he could manage with his long legs and lanky frame. It was early in the evening, but his stomach churned and his head throbbed, and he'd been trying to get warm. He felt so cold all the time lately. Always, always cold. Rationally, he knew that the temperature in England was much higher than it had been on the expedition. In fact, the temperature in London had been well above freezing, as that December was proving to be unusually warm. Still, he could never seem to get warm enough. 

In the time since he and Francis had parted ways on that fateful morning, James had not left his flat even once. He'd thought about it, of course - knew that he needed to go out and take care of some things, but the idea of stepping outside and facing the world felt unbearable in his current state. His mind had begun taunting him with irrational thoughts and fears. What if there should be another carriage accident, and this time, he was the man lying lifeless under the horse? What if a madman should stumble into the neighborhood wielding a pistol or a knife, and begin senselessly slaughtering everyone in his path? What if there was a fire, and everyone became trapped, cooked alive like so many had been at the Grand Carnivale, back on the ice? 

The rational part of James's mind knew that none of these things were likely to happen. In fact, most of them could just as easily happen to him there, in his own flat. But logic did very little to assuage his fears, and the longer he stayed indoors, the more convinced he became that it was the safest place for him to be. 

He'd begun taking advantage of the brandy's medicinal properties, only occasionally, after the night of the accident. A glass here and there to calm the nerves seemed reasonable enough. But over the past few days, he'd taken to drinking off and on throughout the day, a glass here, a glass there - sometimes more than one at a time - in a pitiful effort to numb the pain in his heart and slow his racing thoughts. It had worked, to a point, though not nearly so well as he had inferred when Francis had come to see him.

Pulling his pillow over his head, James groaned. Why had he been so vile when Francis had come calling? Francis had felt badly. James knew that. He had even asked for forgiveness, but James had been unable - or  _ unwilling  _ \- to offer that forgiveness. He'd just felt so  _ angry _ , and with the alcohol in his system, he'd not had the self control to keep himself from speaking whatever rash thoughts came to mind. But later that night, the brandy had run out, and now, here he lay, feeling every bit as wretched physically as he had been feeling emotionally. 

James pulled the pillow off his head and threw it across the room with a growl of frustration. He half-climbed, half-fell out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Perhaps he could brew some teh halia, like he had made for Francis not so long ago. Mechanically, he gathered the ingredients needed and began preparing the tea, thinly slicing the ginger root and dropping it into the pot one slice at a time. The sharp tang of the fresh ginger assailed his sinuses, making his eyes water. Apropos, he thought, since he'd already been shedding tears so frequently of late. 

After situating the kettle over the fire, James wandered to the couch and plopped down to gaze out at the street below. The sun had gone down and the lamps along the street were freshly lit, casting their warm glow in luminous coronas on the ground. The snow had melted, a fact for which James felt thankful. He felt a little less anxious, now that he could see the ground, no longer covered by that treacherous blanket of white. 

He wondered what Francis was doing at that moment. Was he with Sophia? The thought made his stomach roil more severely than it already had been. James could understand Francis's thought process well enough, in regards to the woman. (He'd taken to calling Sophia "the woman" in his own mind, refusing to use her name.) After all, it was the  _ sensible  _ thing to do, and Francis had always been keen to do the sensible, cautious thing. Yes, to marry a beautiful young woman was sensible, he supposed. Sophia could give him an heir. Sophia came from a fine family. She was someone Francis would be able to display proudly as his bride, even though the marriage was doomed to be a loveless one. These things made Sophia a  _ safe  _ option. 

James knew the law just as well as Francis did. He understood that sodomy was forbidden, and the act of buggery, itself, was punishable by death. Naturally, he did not wish for them to be punished, let alone killed. The difference between his own thought process and that of Francis lay in the fact that James simply wasn't convinced that living without Francis - standing by and watching him marry another - would not be its own particular brand of punishment, far more brutal and infinitely more painful than a thousand executions. 

Exactly what his concept of the ideal future with Francis would look like, James did not know. Yes, it would be difficult. Less than ideal, certainly. Dangerous? Perhaps. But they were explorers! They had both braved much more perilous circumstances on the expeditions they'd undertaken with the Royal Navy. And besides, would it not be worth certain sacrifices to be free to love and be loved by the one person he felt he could not live without? 

The kettle began to boil, and James made his way to the fire to pour the tea into a tea cup, adding what was left of his milk and crushing a peppermint leaf over it before taking a long, slow sip. The warmth of it was soothing. He could feel the heat permeating his body from the inside, and he sighed contentedly, gaining strength from the warmth. 

He could not allow himself to be defeated by this…  _ fixation _ , he decided. James Fitzjames had never been made a fool over love of man or woman. He was stronger than that, or at least he  _ had  _ been in the past. What he needed was a good night's sleep. Once he'd pushed through this blasted hangover, he would begin afresh. A new lease on life. That was what he needed - what he'd earned, by dragging himself from the very gates of Hell and surviving the journey back to England! 

In that moment, he decided. Tomorrow, he would force himself to leave his flat and allow the housekeeper to come in and service it. Perhaps he would go to the shops and buy himself a new book to read, or a new frock coat. Perhaps he'd call on some old friends and go out for a drink. There were infinite possibilities. He finished his tea and then began to ready himself for bed with the faintest glimmer of hope in his heart.

***

James awoke the next morning with a clear head and a growling stomach. It was the first time he'd felt any kind of appetite for several days. He fought back his anxiety over the prospect of leaving the house as he bathed and took his breakfast, and then he made his way downstairs. 

Once he'd pushed past his fear, and was standing outside with the sun shining down on him, he felt a weight lift off of his shoulders. He was not really so far gone. For the first time in nearly a week, he felt hopeful that he was not doomed to a life of utter darkness and despair. If Francis was determined to throw his own life away on a ridiculous woman, so be it. But Francis' bad decisions did not necessitate that James follow suit. 

The thought of Francis brought a pang of melancholy with it, as it always did, but James was determined not to wallow in his grief that day. He forcibly ejected the thought of Francis from his mind and made his way into town in search of some new finery. After all, even if he felt sad and wracked with anxiety on the inside, he could still  _ look _ good on the  _ outside _ . Wasn't that basically how he had conducted himself his entire life? James Fitzjames was exceedingly gifted at putting up a convincing pretense. In fact, he'd become so adept at the practice that he'd been largely successful in even fooling himself. If one played a part well enough and long enough, he reasoned, they would eventually forget that it was only play acting. He'd done it then, and he could do it now.

By late afternoon, James had successfully procured a new waistcoat and frock coat, a new pair of trousers, two new pair of socks, and a new silk cravat. He had also stopped by the home of George R Bertram, his old friend with whom he and Francis had dined at The Rag the night of the carriage accident. He had been heartily greeted and the two had arranged to meet later that evening at a nearby inn for drinks and conversation. By the time James left his friend to head home, he was feeling in higher spirits than he had in a very long time. 

Upon his return, James found that his flat had been swept, mopped, and set in order. There was fresh produce on the counter, and a gently burning fire on the hearth. All was as it should be. Glancing at the clock, he calculated that he had about an hour before he needed to be on his way to the pub - just enough time to wash up and get dressed in his new attire. Yes, he had made up his mind that tonight would be a night to remember and, possibly even more importantly, a night to  _ forget _ . 

***

By the time James arrived at the tavern, it was raining steadily. Fortunately, he'd thought far enough ahead to order a coach to carry him there, so he'd been able to remain dry for the most part. He spotted George at once, huddled under the eaves by the front door, trying to keep out of the rain. He raised a hand to wave to James, calling him over, and the two men went inside together. 

The pub was warm and cheery, hung with garlands and holly in celebration of the coming holiday. It reminded James faintly of the inn where he and Thomas Blanky had boarded when they'd first returned to England. It had not been all that long ago, but it felt like an eternity had passed since then. A fire blazed on the hearth, where a group of men were drinking and singing Christmas tunes. The entire atmosphere was one of festive merriment, and James could feel his spirits lifting more with each passing moment. He could do this. He could be happy and live his life, with or without Francis Crozier.

The two men found a vacant table and took a seat. Within moments, a young woman approached them, inquiring what they would like to drink and whether they would be having supper as well. James ordered a gin and tonic, and then decided he'd have the beef and kidney pie for his meal. 

Suddenly, recognition dawned in the serving girl's eyes. James could see the moment she realized who she was talking to, as her lips pulled into a wide smile. "You're Commander Fitzjames, ain't you? With the Royal Navy? You're one of those blokes come back from the North Pole!"

"James Fitzjames, at your service," he replied, giving her his most winning smile. Inwardly, James was cringing, fighting the urge to correct her geography. Ever since his return to England, he had not particularly enjoyed the spotlight, preferring to remain on the sidelines, despite his previous proclivity for being the center of attention. But tonight he planned to get his hair well and truly powdered, and if he should attract the attention of some pretty young thing in the process, all the better. After all, there were plenty of other fish in the sea. Perhaps he just needed a little reminding that Francis was not the only one capable of indulging him in the pleasures of the flesh.

The serving girl giggled, covering her mouth with one hand. James noticed the way she trailed her fingertips suggestively along her lower lip, then bit down lightly on her fingertip. She was flirting with him, he realized. "Well, your first drink's on the 'ouse,  _ James Fitzjames _ ." She put emphasis on the name, giving it an adoring, sing-song quality and giving him a girlish curtsy at the same time. "And for your friend?" She looked over to George with somewhat less enthusiasm. 

"I'll have the mutton chop and a mug of beer," he said, oblivious to any favoritism being displayed. The girl flashed James a saucy grin before turning to head back to the kitchen with their order. 

"I think she fancies you," George said, once she'd left them. James waved him off dismissively, but George pressed on. "How long has it been since you enjoyed the attention of a pretty young lady?" 

"And how do you know I've not just left one behind at home?" James asked, dodging the question. 

George laughed. "Ah, James, I have missed you," he said. "But don't pass up the chance for a little fun. She looks like the sort who could treat you well, if you know what I mean." 

James flushed, lowering his gaze almost shyly. George leaned forward over the table. "Don't be cross with me, James," he said, his voice softer now, sensing the other man's distress. "I do believe you've been spending too much time with that dried up old grump… What was his name? Crosby? Crony?"

"Crozier," James said quickly. Against all odds, James felt extremely defensive of Francis in that moment. There was a fire burning in his eyes as he glared at the other man. "His name is Francis Crozier, and I'll ask you not to speak of him in that manner."

George looked truly taken aback. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and leaned back in his chair. "Apologies, James. I meant no offense. Yes, Crozier was the name."

James nodded curtly, struggling to rein in his emotions. He hadn't meant to lash out like that. They sat there quietly for a few awkward moments, each taking in their surroundings, until James broke the silence.

"So, tell me, George. What new adventures have you found yourself in lately? Do you have any prospects for the future? A new commission, perhaps?"

"I do, in fact," George replied, but was interrupted at that moment by the return of the serving girl, carrying their drinks. James couldn't help being impressed by how quickly she'd managed to bring them. She gave him a wink before meandering back to the kitchen, her hips swaying a little more obviously than was necessary. James watched her go, his eyes following her backside all the way to the saloon-style swinging doors. He felt the faintest twitch of arousal, but it quickly dissipated, replaced a sinking feeling in his gut.

"There's an expedition under the leadership of the famed naturalist, Alfred Russel Wallace, setting sail for the Amazon jungle just next month. Fancy me in the Amazon! That's in Brazil, of all places!" 

At this, James accidentally inhaled a swallow of his drink. He coughed loudly, trying to cover his mouth with one hand and holding up a finger with the other, in an effort to assure his companion that he wasn't choking to death. 

"Indeed! Brazil. Fancy that," he said, once he'd regained control over his diaphragm. "I hear it's quite lovely there." 

"Yes, I've heard the same," George answered. There was a measure of concern in his eyes over James's sudden coughing fit, but he didn't ask any questions. James felt sure that there was no way George could have possibly suspected any connection between himself and Brazil, but the mention of it had been so unexpected that it had taken him completely off guard. 

The food, along with a second round of drinks, was delivered to their table by a different young woman. James wondered what had happened to the first, but he soon began to understand that she must have been telling tales to the others in the kitchen and behind the bar. He cast his gaze quickly around the room to find several people - both men and women - casting furtive glances in his direction, quickly turning away when they met his eye. He shook his head and chuckled at the ease with which people were drawn in by a spectacle - even one so underwhelming as himself. 

"To exploration and new discoveries," James said, lifting his glass in a toast. 

"I'll drink to that!" George agreed, raising his mug. "And to friendships, old and new." They clinked their glasses, and they both drank. 

***

######  _ Francis _

Francis had spent the past twenty-four hours in a state of perpetual torment. He was haunted by the memory of James's face, care worn and grieved. 

_ I loved you, brother. I always shall… _

Those words had played through his mind, over and over on an endless loop, like some kind of repeating gramophone recording. He thought, too, of what Sophia had said to him, and the more he thought of it, the more confused he became. 

By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, Francis had decided that he simply had to speak with her again. It was possible, after all, that he had simply misunderstood her meaning when they had last spoken. Perhaps she had been feeling unwell, or was in a sour mood for some other reason unknown to him, and it had caused her to speak out of turn. Whatever the reason, he had to be clear. He needed her to be honest with him, and they both needed to understand exactly where they stood, and what each expected of the other. 

Having no desire to discuss any of this with Sir James Ross, Francis ordered his own coach to transport him to Sophia's home. Under normal circumstances, he would have preferred simply to walk, but it had begun to drizzle, and he didn't wish to be soaked to the skin upon arrival, if the clouds should happen to open up and rain pour down on his way.

Naturally, it was the ever-tiresome Marianne who answered the door when he arrived. She gaped at him as if he'd sprouted a second head, and he glowered back at her. 

"Is Miss Cracroft at home?" Francis asked, before she could have a chance to ask whether or not he was expected. He was in no mood for interrogations. Not tonight.

"Yes, she is, Sir, but…"

"I must speak with her," Francis insisted, pushing his way past her and inside the house. He could hear the musical sound of Sophia's laughter, like tinkling crystal, coming from the direction of the parlor. By the sound of it, he guessed that she was talking with Lady Jane, but he didn't care. 

"Sir, please wait," Marianne protested, a note of desperation in her voice. "You mustn't go in there without…" Francis ignored her entirely. He shrugged off his coat and muffler and shoved them at the girl, effectively silencing her inane protests before taking long, quick strides in the direction of the parlor. The doors were closed, but he once again heard the sound of Sophia's laughter, high and sweet, coming from within. Without announcing himself in any way, Francis flung open the parlor door.

What he saw inside that room made the very blood in his veins run cold as ice. 

Sophia was seated on the settee by the fire, wearing the pale blue gown she had worn to the Victory Ball. Her head was turned back in his direction, her eyes wide with horror. Seated beside her was a young man who Francis recognized vaguely, but could not immediately place. He had one arm casually draped around Sophia's back, his fingertips grazing the skin of her bare right shoulder, and with his other hand, he held one of hers, frozen midway to his lips, his head tipped close to hers, as if to tell her a secret. He wore an expression of shock similar to the one Sophia wore. The image might have been a comical one if not for the blood draining from Francis's head and making his vision swim.

Suddenly, the taught thread of shock that had held them all spellbound snapped, and everyone sprang into action at once. Sophia leapt up from the settee and rushed to Francis. She was saying something, but her voice was pitched so shrilly and she was speaking so quickly that Francis could not process the words. At the same time, the young man stood, and was slowly backing away from the two of them. He looked terrified, and with good reason, given that at that moment, Francis wanted nothing more than to rear back and punch him in the face hard enough to shatter his teeth.

Sophia had reached Francis by now, and was pawing at his chest, pleading tearfully. There were tears in her eyes, but he could feel no pity for her. The only thing he could feel in that moment was revulsion. 

"Save your tears and save your lies," he said, his voice oddly cool and disconnected. He needed to remove himself from the situation before his tenuous grip on self-control slipped, and he did something he would regret forever. He recoiled from Sophia, swiping her hands away from him as he backed out of the room. Then he turned and went straight out the front door, ignoring Sophia's wails of protest.

Francis staggered into the street, lightheaded and reeling from what he'd just witnessed, still trying to piece together exactly what it was that he had seen. It was raining harder now. Of course it was. It was always bloody raining in that city, but he trudged on through the puddles in the street without even registering the cold, muddy water soaking through his boots and up his trouser legs. His one and only objective was to remove himself - as far as was humanly possible - from the atrocity that now lay behind him, because the one thing he was certain of was that whatever he had just walked in on, it had been  _ wrong. _

All at once, he remembered where he'd seen that young man before. He had been the one they had met at the Ball - the one with whom Sophia had insisted upon dancing, even though she had shown no interest in dancing with Francis. He cast his memory back to that night. Sophia had left the ball early, complaining of a stomach ache. Francis tried with all his might to recall whether he'd seen that young man again that night, but he could not. Was it possible… Could Sophia have been having illicit rendezvous with this man all this time, under his very nose? Surely not! He couldn't believe that Sophia would have been so duplicitous. And yet, had he not just stumbled in on the two of them, caught in a moment of intimacy? A series of thoughts, suspicions, and accusations rolled through his mind, one after another, each one more hideous than the last. His hands were balled into fists so tightly that he could feel his fingernails digging into the heels of his palms. 

It was only after he'd walked two full city blocks that Crozier realized he'd left his overcoat behind, along with his hat and muffler. It didn't matter. Francis Crozier had withstood conditions far worse than this, and he absolutely refused to go back and retrieve his outer garments now. The one blessing of this abominable weather was that his tears of anger and betrayal would blend right in with the rain - the perfect camouflage. For this, at least, he could be thankful.

Francis couldn't remember a single time that he'd wanted a drink more badly than he did at that moment. He remembered that there was a pub just up the street from his current location, and the thought of having even just one drink was the only thing keeping him somewhat in control of his faculties. A small voice deep inside him questioned the wisdom of this course of action. The last time he'd given in to the siren song of whiskey, he had ended up passing out in the middle of a ballroom and waking up in James's living room. 

James… The thought of James brought with it a whole new set of overwhelming emotions, far too complex for him to process in that moment. And yet, he yearned for the comfort that James could give him. It was a selfish desire, he knew. But after what he'd just seen, he no longer saw his way ahead. James would not turn him away, he felt sure. Yes, he could go to James. But first, he would stop at the inn and have a good stiff drink. Just one drink. It would be fine.

He staggered up to the door of the pub, looking up at the hanging wooden sign as it swung in the wind, rain dripping heavily from the slats. Francis could just see a fire blazing inside, and when the door opened, music and laughter drifted out from within. It was as if the building itself was calling to him - beckoning to him with open arms. The attraction was tangible - a magnetic pull that tugged at the very fibers of his being.

Still, he lingered on the doorstep, unsure. He'd just decided to go inside when the door had swung open from within, and three people spilled out onto the street, nearly doubled over with raucous laughter. A man swayed on his feet, one arm looped loosely around the waist of a young woman on each side of him, slightly hunched in an effort to regain his balance. The women were giggling loudly, dressed relatively indecently, very likely drunk, possibly prostitutes. He couldn't be sure. Francis sneered in disgust at the tasteless display, staggering backward to keep from colliding with the group.

"There's a good girl. Help a man up, would you?" the man said, his voice half-slurred with the effects of his intoxication. 

In that moment, Francis felt as though someone had tugged the very paving stones out from under his feet. He wasn't even sure whether he was still standing upright. The street seemed to be spinning. Or was it just his own head that was spinning? There was a deafening sound of ringing in his ears, and the periphery of his vision had gone all spotty. This wasn't right. He must have been mistaken. Or maybe this was all a vivid, horrible dream. It simply couldn't be real. He took a step closer to the trio.

"James?" he asked, struggling to reassure himself that, when the man looked up at him in confusion, he would be relieved to see the face of a perfect stranger. He would realize then that it had all been a grand misunderstanding. Of course it had been.

James Fitzjames, the handsomest man in the Royal Navy, looked up to meet Francis's gaze. His entire countenance changed as recognition dawned in those large, dark eyes, and Francis watched as the rosy hue drained from his cheeks, his expression falling slack. He looked as though he'd seen a ghost. Perhaps he had.

"Francis! What are you doing here?" Fitzjames seemed to sober in an instant, standing up straight and dropping his hands from the women's bodies as if waking from a trance. "I didn't think you were… I mean… I thought… Francis, what's wrong? Where's your coat?" 

Francis simply stared at him, dumbstruck. This was the man he'd been certain he could lean on, to glean comfort in the face of the betrayal he'd just suffered. This was the man Francis had thought to be his rock - his anchor - his port in the storm that raged all around him. And here he was, stumbling out of a bar with a pair of doxies hanging on his arms, and the stench of cheap gin on his breath. There was a moment when Francis actually thought he might be sick, but he somehow managed to pull himself together.

Unwilling to look at the women, but equally determined not to meet James's gaze, Francis stubbornly looked over the man's shoulder, into the pub. "I'm fine," he insisted, though his voice broke as he said it. "Don't worry for me, James. I shall let you get on with your evening. I'll not trouble you tonight." 

Fitzjames looked absolutely desolate. He took another step forward, shaking off the desperate groping hands of the two women, who were now also behaving much more soberly, obviously concerned that their plans for the evening, and possibly a few shillings, were in jeopardy. 

"Francis, wait," James implored, but Crozier was already marching resolutely away with one hand lifted dismissively, not bothering to turn around. He had no idea where he was going, but he refused to remain another moment in that place. He had been right five minutes previous. What he needed was a good stiff drink, but he'd be damned if he was going to get one in  _ that _ pub. 

***

"Francis!"

The voice rang out from the sitting room as Francis walked through the front door of the Ross home. Somehow, he had managed to carry himself back here, despite the way the world had been careening off its axis for the entire trip. He hadn't even had a drink yet! He'd been planning to march straight up to his bedroom, having no desire to speak to Sir James Ross, or Lady Ann, or anyone else. But the voice he heard now did not belong to either of them, nor anyone else who lived in that house.

"Thomas? Good God, what are you doing here?" Francis asked, shocked to see his old friend but absolutely overcome with gratitude at the sight of him. Thomas Blanky stood and hobbled over to Francis, arms open in invitation. Francis nearly knocked him over, falling into his embrace like a lost child, reunited with his mother. 

Thomas slapped him on the back reassuringly. "Sir James Ross sent word that you weren't faring all that well. He's worried for you, Francis," Thomas said, his voice full of compassion. "I think he hoped I could cheer you up."

It was all that Francis could do to keep from bursting into tears on the spot. He felt that he'd just come out of a boxing match where he'd been pitted against three separate men, all at once, each of them twice his size. "Where are you staying, Thomas? Has Sir James prepared a room for you here?"

"Nah, I'm stayin' at the inn just down the road," he answered. "When I received word from James, I came straight away. Didn't bother sendin' a reply. Why don't ye come with me? We can sip a cup of tea and reminisce about that bloody reindeer if ye like. Whad'ya say?"

Francis couldn't help but let out a laugh, though a stray tear had escaped his eye and now meandered down his cheek. "I'd like that," he said, nodding. "But I'd as well get out of these wet clothes first. Would you mind waiting while I change into something dry, Thomas?"

"Course not," Thomas said. "I'll just wait down here, if ye don't mind. I'd rather not climb that staircase if I don't have to."

"I'll be back in just a moment, then," Francis said, and he hurried up the stairs to change his clothes.


	21. Clarity

######  _ Francis _

Thomas Blanky sat quietly, listening to Francis pour out his heart over a cup of tea. Francis wanted something stronger, but Thomas had put down his one good foot, and Francis had settled for the tea instead. He didn't know how long he'd been talking. An hour? Maybe even longer. It seemed that, once he'd gotten started, he was unable to stem the torrential flow of words spilling out of him like a geyser. 

He told Thomas everything that had happened with Sophia: from the proposal, to the ball, to the dinner party. He spoke of Sophia's cool, aloof manner, her hurtful dismissal of his feelings, her adamant insistence that he accept the promotion to Rear Admiral, and the fresh discovery that she was now - and possibly had always been - involved with another man, emotionally if not physically. The more he talked, the more clear the image became.

By the time he'd finished weaving his tale of woe, Francis was exhausted. He slumped forward in his chair, cradling his head in his hands, waiting for the comfort that would surely come from Thomas, giving his famed words of wisdom. Somehow, he knew that Thomas would know exactly what was to be done. 

"And what about James?" Thomas asked. 

Francis's head snapped up in surprise. "What?" he said, his mind scrambling to catch up. He hadn't even mentioned James yet. Perhaps he'd misheard. 

"I said, what about Captain Fitzjames?" Blanky repeated, fixing Francis with a piercing gaze.

"What  _ about  _ him?" Francis huffed. "What's James got to do with what I've just told you? My God, Thomas, have you even been listening to me? I've been telling you about  _ Sophia _ . Not James!"

Thomas kept his gaze steadily on Francis, completely unperturbed by this little outburst. He nodded, his lips tugging into the faintest hint of a sardonic grin. "Aye, I've been listening closely to every word, and my question remains. What - about - James?" He spaced out the words, placing emphasis on every syllable. 

Francis breathed out an exasperated sigh and threw his hands up in the air. "Honestly Thomas, you can be the worst kind of infuriating! Do you know that? Forget about James for a moment. I need to work out what to do about Sophia."

Finally, Thomas's expression shifted, but not in the way Francis might have hoped. He looked displeased - downright angry, but he didn't get up. He simply set his jaw and pointed an accusatory finger at Francis.

"Now  _ you _ listen to  _ me, _ Francis," he said in a low voice that made Francis squirm in his seat. "You and I have been friends for a long time. We've weathered a fair few storms together. Seen things that would make the average man's heart fail. And through it all, I've done my best to stand by and support you as my friend, and to obey your command as my captain. But we are not on a ship right now, Francis. You hold no authority over me, and I intend to tell you the truth, without mincing words, no matter what it is that you  _ think  _ you want to hear. I will not stand by and watch you throw your life away over some misguided fantasy of how life  _ ought _ to look." 

Francis opened his mouth to protest, but Thomas jabbed his finger in the air. "No!" he said firmly. "You've had your chance to talk, and have done so for the better part of an hour and a half, while I sat quietly and listened. Now it's my turn to talk, and you're going to listen."

Francis was dumbfounded. Whatever he might have expected to come out of Thomas's mouth, it had not been even remotely similar to the chastisement he was receiving. He blinked, closed his mouth, and sat back in his seat with an expression of cynical expectation - prepared to hear his friend out, but equally prepared for the possibility that he would disregard every word of it. 

"Captain Fitzjames paid me a visit at my home a while back. Did ye know that?"

"What?" Francis was confused. "When did he…"

"Surely you must have registered his absence for several days. Did you even bother to ask him where he'd gone, while he was away?" Thomas asked, one brow arching. 

Francis tried to remember. Surely he had asked where James had gone. He'd spent nearly a week moping over his absence and pondering this very question. Yet, now that he really thought about it.. In the heat of the moment, the question simply hadn't come up.

"I thought not," Thomas said smugly. "Aye, he spent several days in Whitby with my family and me. And do you know why he came to me?"

"I can only surmise that--" But Thomas interrupted him.

"He came because of  _ you _ !"

Francis's eyes widened, and he swallowed, his throat having gone suddenly dry. "Just...how much did he tell you, Thomas? How much do you know?" he asked.

Thomas gave him a knowing half smile. "I know  _ enough _ . Now listen, and listen well. Because you need to get it through that thick Irish skull of yours that the decision you make regarding Sophia and what happens between you and James are intricately and inexorably interwoven. 

You've put that poor man through hell since our return to England. Do ye realize that? This entire time, he's been uncomfortable about Sophia. I dare say he had a better read on her true character than you ever did, Francis. But he stood by ye, supported ye, tried his damnedest to be happy for ye. He even wrote the bloody proposal for ye!" 

Francis cringed. He'd completely forgotten about the proposal James had written. How much must that have hurt him, if he'd already begun to question his feelings for Francis? He remembered clutching the scrap of paper tightly in his trembling hands, and he remembered the despair he'd felt when Sophia had so carelessly tossed it into the fire. But Thomas was speaking again, drawing his attention back.

"When he came to Whitby, the poor fool was beside 'imself with nerves, and confused out of 'is gourd about 'is feelings for you! I asked him, then, if he loved you. Do ye know what he said?"

Francis shook his head. 

"Said he didn't know. I wasn't surprised. But it doesn't matter so much what he  _ said _ , because I already knew from his  _ actions  _ what the answer was, even though it seems  _ he  _ didn't know the truth of it, poor sod. Francis, he made a five-and-a-half-bloody-hour train journey just to have someone he could talk to about his feelings for  _ you _ . If that's not an indicator of the strength of those feelings, I don't know what is. Now, I don't know what's happened between the two of ye in the time between then and now, but the one thing I do know is that you've been careless - reckless even, with that man's friendship and with his heart, and you need to  _ wake the hell up,  _ or risk losing him forever."

Francis was speechless. He'd come here tonight thinking that Thomas would coddle and comfort him - let him have a good cry, give him a nice pat on the back and maybe a few drinks, and generally join with him in wallowing in his self-pity before sending him on his way home. An earth shattering epiphany had not been part of the plan. Instead, he felt like Thomas had tried curing his headache by chopping off his left arm.

"All right, Thomas," he said, when he'd finally found his voice again. "I understand what you are saying, and I appreciate that you are concerned about James's well being. I am as well, of course! But you seem to have forgotten one very important fact, and that fact is that I am engaged to be married to Sophia. We've already announced our engagement, and I am bound by honor to marry her, no matter what my personal feelings might be for James, or anyone else." 

Thomas shook his head in obvious frustration. It gave him the impression of a school teacher trying to drive home the most simple of concepts to a particularly stupid child. "Francis, if what you've told me tonight is true, Sophia's actions have already released you and your bloody  _ honor  _ from any commitment you might have had to her. You can't mean to tell me that you would still marry her, when she's been pouring her treasure into foreign laps before y'er even married? Use yer damn head, Francis! Sophia doesn't love you. Don't you remember how she rejected you -  _ twice _ \- before we set sail? If she's changed her mind since then, I'd warrant it has little to do with her heart and everything to do with the fact that you're being hailed as a hero, and likely to be rewarded with a tidy sum of money. She's practically admitted as much in demanding that you accept this promotion, despite the imminent commission that will inevitably take you away from her. And when you've gone, what's to stop her groping for trout in peculiar waters? You might just return home to find she's carrying another man's child, and draining your bank account dry all the while."

Francis gaped at him, wide-eyed, but Thomas hadn't finished.

"And there's something else to consider, Francis. You've been telling me all about how you've been wronged by Sophia, and I feel for you. I do. I never have trusted her as far as I could throw her. But something you've conveniently forgotten is that you are every bit as guilty of infidelity as she is."

"Now wait just a damn minute, Thomas. That's not fair! What happened between James and me was--"

"Was  _ no bloody different _ , Francis! And if you've managed to convince yerself otherwise, then y'er deluded beyond my ability to help ye. Now I'm not here to judge you. I dare say you'll be doing enough of that on yer own in the days and weeks to come. But what I'm trying to drive home to you is that  _ you don't love her either! _ You've been starved of happiness for so long that ye no longer know  _ what  _ will make ye happy, but listen close, and mark my words, Francis. If you marry this woman, you will never be happy again."

Apparently satisfied that he had made his point, Thomas finally leaned back in his chair and dropped his hands into his lap. His gaze never left Francis, appraising - challenging, even - waiting for him to respond somehow, but Francis felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach, his whole world shifting and combusting all around him. Every word Thomas had just said made perfect sense. Indeed, coming from Thomas's mouth, it seemed preposterous that he could have interpreted these events in any other way. The words that Sir John had once spoken to him drifted through his mind.

_ ..But you've made yourself miserable and distant, and hard to love...  _

_ and you've blamed the world for it. _

Had he been pushing James away unconsciously this whole time? Had he been protecting himself from another heartbreak, only to create it himself? He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

For a few minutes, the two men simply sat there, staring at each other - Thomas having said all he had to say, and Francis still struggling to arrange his scattered thoughts and feelings, and put them into words of any coherent kind. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and fraught with emotion.

"I do not know what to do, Thomas," he said. "I know that everything you've said is true. I know it in my head, and I know it in my heart. I think I've known for some time that Sophia did not truly love me, nor I, her. It was an obsession. A dream. An illusion. But that illusion has been shattered now, and I'm finally waking up. 

"Furthermore, I know that I…" He paused, eyes closing as he drew in a deep, ragged breath. "I have never, in all my life, felt a greater desire… nay, a greater  _ need _ for any human being, neither male nor female, than I feel for James. I do believe that… Yes, I do believe that I love him."

Thomas nodded sagely, but remained silent, waiting.

"But you know as well as I that sodomy is forbidden by every law known to God and man. It is punishable, even by death, not to mention the views of the churches both of England and of Ireland. How am I to give myself to a man when I know that to do so would mean death for us both, were we caught, not only in this life, but in the life to come? I care very little for my own life, but what of James? Should we be arrested, it would be both of us with our necks in the noose. I… can't. I can't do that to him, Thomas."

At these words, Thomas Blankly finally let his steely facade fall away. His entire countenance softened as he leaned forward. "You must follow yer heart, Francis. I said the same to James. Now, the law may make its demands, aye. And the church has its own set of laws, to boot. But what does yer  _ heart _ tell ye? If there's a God in Heaven, do ye think He'd want you miserable for the rest of yer life, Francis? Haven't we always been told that God  _ is Love _ ? If you truly love James, I don't believe that anyone, on Earth or in Heaven, will be able to keep you apart. You wouldn't have a marriage in the traditional sense. That much is true. You'd have to keep your private matters private. But as I told James, there have been bachelors living under one roof for time immemorial. Nobody need know what goes on behind closed doors. It's nobody's business but yer own."

Francis sighed, nodding. This, also, was true. But his heart was still heavy. It was different for James. He'd been hiding behind a facade his entire life - keeping the fact of his parentage - his illegitimacy - a secret from everyone. He was used to living a prevarication. But Francis… all his life he'd fought to be accepted for who he was - middle born… Irish… These were things he could not hide from the public, even if he'd tried. So he'd grown cynical and callous and hard. Could he live a secret life, as Thomas was suggesting? Would James even want to? 

_ I loved you, Brother. I always shall… _

Yes, he believed that James would be willing to make that sacrifice, and the realization took his breath away. He remembered how wretched James had looked when he'd gone to his flat the other day, and his heart broke all over again. How could he have been so thoughtless? Then he thought of James earlier that evening, staggering out of that pub with the two women. Was he already too late? Had James given up on him entirely? 

"Thank-you, Thomas," he said. "Thank-you for being the only one not afraid to drag my wretched ass over the coals. I don't know how I can repay you for that."

"You can do the right thing, Francis. That's all you  _ can  _ do, and all you  _ ever _ need do."

Francis nodded with a half-hearted smile. "Very well. In that case, I have my work set before me. You've given me a great deal to think through." I suppose I'd best get back home before it starts raining again.

Thomas twisted in his chair, looking through the window, out into the night sky. "Aye… cloud cover's holding. The rain's let up for now, but I reckon it'll start up again within the hour."

Francis stood to his feet and crossed the room to Thomas, who also stood. Without another word, he threw his arms around his old friend in a ferocious hug. "I thank God for you, Thomas Blanky." 

Thomas returned his hug, patting his back. "As do I for you, old friend," he said. "Now go on, 'less you want to get soaked to the skin twice in one night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank-you for reading. I wanted to leave a note to let you know that I will not be replying to comments until after the story is finished, because I don't want to run the risk of spoiling anything. However, please keep the comments coming. I treasure every single one! I hope you will enjoy the remainder of the story. It's all coming together now! xoxo


	22. And So It Goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After receiving some feedback, and giving the issue a great deal of thought, I decided to make a few additions to this chapter. I hope you will enjoy the changes I've made, or if you hadn't read the first draft, I hope you enjoy it for the first time! :D

######  _ James _

When James finally walked through his door that night, thoroughly drenched in both body and soul, he nearly stumbled over a thick envelope lying on the floor. He stooped to pick it up and examined it, turning it over in his hands. Someone must have slipped it under his door while he was out. The parcel was fairly covered in postage marks, several in foreign languages, and the envelope itself was dingey and worn at the corners. It had traveled a long distance to end up on the floor of his flat. 

James sighed and tossed the envelope onto the coffee table. He was mildly curious about its contents, but at that moment he just couldn't muster the energy to care enough to put forth the effort to open it. Whatever it was, it could wait a little while longer without hurting anything. He slouched out of his overcoat and hung it on the rack, frowning at the sight of the water dripping off the hem to puddle on the floor below. He made a mental note to bring a towel from the kitchen, to wipe up the water. 

James had lost all desire for merriment after he'd seen Francis outside the inn. He was ashamed, now, that he had fully intended to bring at least one of those girls back to his apartment. Exactly what he would do with them after that, he hadn't thought through. In all honesty, it didn't really matter. He just wanted to live in the moment. He wanted to forget. 

He wanted to forget the pain that gnawed at his insides every waking moment. He wanted to forget the horrors he'd witnessed in the Arctic. He wanted to forget the loss of Sir John, and all the other men who had lost their lives. Most of all, he wanted to forget Francis Crozier.

James wanted to feel _ something _ other than anxiety and despair - to prove to himself that he was still capable of feeling _ alive _ . That he could enjoy the company of someone - _ anyone _\- other than Francis. But after that awkward confrontation on the street, he knew it was hopeless. Shaken, he'd gone back inside and had one more drink with George, who was still in the inn, having won the attention of one of the other ladies. He'd nursed the drink for as long as he could, until he could tell that George was becoming impatient to leave, and then he'd trudged home in the rain, on foot.

Now, shivering, James went to his bedroom and peeled the layers of wet fabric from his body. He wrung the water from the soaked garments into the wash basin and slipped into his sleep clothes and dressing gown. Then he brought the wet items to the living room and hung them in front of the fire to dry. Finally, he filled the kettle and hung it over the flame. What he truly wanted was sleep, but he knew that the frenetic energy bottled up inside him would make it nigh impossible to relax. 

Oh, Francis… Francis, Francis, Francis. It seemed that Francis was all he thought about anymore. But then, thinking of Francis was infinitely more appealing than the horrific flashbacks, or the insidious anxiety-inducing thoughts that had grown up in his mind, curling and weaving through his grey matter like a malevolent vine. He'd hoped that he could distract himself with frivolities, but it was clear to him now that if he was to have any hope of forgetting Francis, he would need to leave London for good.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, James glanced over at the envelope on the coffee table. He felt a sense of dread at the prospect of opening it, though he wasn't sure why. Somehow he felt that it must surely contain a harbinger of more bad news. He couldn't think of a single good thing that might come to him from overseas. Resignedly, he lifted the envelope and carried it to his room, placing it on his writing desk and sitting in his chair. 

Pulling a letter opener from the drawer, he slipped it under the flap, tearing a clean line from corner to corner. Upending the package, he allowed gravity to pull its contents free. A small stack of papers resembling legal documents, wrapped neatly with a length of twine lay before him. He carefully untied the knot and lifted off the cover letter, which bore his name and an old address of his, and was dated two months previous. 

James scanned the cover letter, then riffled through the pages beneath. He could read the words perfectly well, but they simply didn't make sense to him at first. Once he was sure that the documents were genuine, and not some kind of cruel prank, he read the cover letter again, more carefully this time. His eyes widened as he gradually began to understand the implications of what he now held in his hands. These pieces of paper held the potential to change his life forever.

***

James awoke late the following morning to a brightly shining sun. He was thankful that the rain had passed, but the low level throbbing behind his bloodshot eyes was less than impressed with the bright sunlight that was now pouring through his window, and he wished he'd passed on that last drink the night before. He groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets up around his head and burrowing into his pillow. He was not ready to get up yet. In fact, he would have been perfectly content to stay in bed the entire day. After all, it was Saturday, and he had no previous engagements. He had just decided to try and go back to sleep when he heard a knock on his door.

Grumbling a string of profanities under his breath, James pulled himself up out of bed and slipped into his dressing gown before padding down the hall to answer the door. 

"Who is it?" he asked through the door, but there was no reply. Perhaps he'd heard some other sound and mistaken it for a knock on his own door. He waited a moment and then repeated himself. "Is anyone there?" 

"It's Francis."

James clenched his jaw, hating himself for the way his heart was suddenly thundering in his chest like a runaway stallion. "Go away!" he shouted.

"James, please. I must speak with you."

James uttered a low growl of frustration. Francis had made his decision, and they both needed to accept that his choice had been "the woman," and not him. From behind the safety of his closed door, there was a glimmer of hope that his resolve would hold, but he knew that if he opened that door and looked into those pale, sad eyes, his heart would never stand a chance, and he'd end up broken and empty, left with only the pain of loneliness. 

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say, Francis," he said, though his voice wavered as he spoke. He pinched his eyes closed, struggling to center himself and calm his racing heart.

"James... Please just hear me out, and after I'm done, if you never want to see me again, I will leave you in peace, I swear."

James felt his hands curl into fists, squeezing until white half-moon marks appeared on his palms. He couldn't stand this. He wasn't strong enough. He just needed it to be over.

"I'm sorry, Francis," he said, taking a shaky step backward, away from the door. "I can't do this. I'd like you to leave." His voice broke on the final word: "Please."

######  _ Francis _

It took every ounce of self-control for Francis to restrain himself from slamming his fist against the door with all his might. He knew there was nothing more he could do in that moment. James was perfectly within his rights to deny him entry, and he couldn't blame him for being reticent. Very well, then. There was one thing that Francis had decided he must do, and now was as good a time as any.

Slowly - on the slim chance that James might change his mind and come after him - Francis descended the stairs and walked out onto the street. He glanced back up at James's flat and caught the briefest glimpse of him standing by his window, but then he was gone - disappeared behind the diaphanous curtains like a beautiful apparition. Francis swore under his breath and began walking with a heavy heart and a mind buzzing with a jumble of thoughts. 

He was too late. He'd come to his senses only to realize that his foolishness had cost him the one person he truly wanted to spend the rest of his days with.

No, he could not accept that. After all, hadn't he proposed to Sophia twice? No, three times! He hadn't surrendered hope that Sophia would accept his proposal, and he refused to surrender hope now. He would complete the task set before him, and then he would return to James tomorrow and beg him to listen. Francis Crozier had pressed his way beyond the bounds of pride now. He would throw himself at James's feet and grovel if he had to, but he would not give up. He trudged ahead in the direction of the Franklins' home.

Stepping up to Sophia's door, Francis knocked briskly. Marianne answered, but she did not say a word. Her face paled and she took a step backward to allow Francis entry. It occurred to him that she might be afraid of him, and he felt saddened by the possibility. 

"I'm afraid I left in rather a hurry last night," he said to Marianne. "I believe I may have left my coat and hat here in my haste."

"Yes, sir. You did, sir," she said softly, not quite meeting Francis's eye.

"Marianne… That is your name, is it not?"

The girl nodded.

"I am sorry if I frightened you last night in my anger. I understand now that you were trying to protect me, or at least to protect your mistress. I was wrong to treat you the way I did, shoving my coat at you and thundering past without regard to your words, let alone your feelings. I apologize for my behavior."

Marianne finally lifted her face to meet his gaze. "Thank-you, sir," she said, her express rearranging itself into a shy smile. "I'll just go and fetch the lady for you, and your things as well."

"Thank-you," Francis said, smiling back at her. 

While he waited, Francis considered the words he would use to confront his fiancee. In truth, he needn't make any accusations at all. What was done was done, and he could hardly accuse her of infidelity when he had been just as guilty. If neither of them wished any longer to be married, then to move forward with wedding plans was pointless and foolish, and it was abundantly clear to Francis now that neither of them truly wanted this. 

At the sound of feet pattering down the stairs, Francis looked up to find Sophia rushing toward him. As she neared, he could see that her eyes were red and puffy, as if she'd been crying. He braced himself as she flung herself at him and threw her arms around his neck. He had to be strong now. He must not give in to her tears, no matter how genuine they seemed to be. 

"Oh, Francis," she sobbed, pulling back to look into his face. "I'm so glad you've come. I was afraid I'd never see you again after…what happened… last night."

Francis gripped her firmly by the elbows and pulled her arms from around his neck, taking a step backward as he did so. His face remained stoic, though even now, it hurt his heart to see her cry. "You may not be so glad of my coming, when once you've heard what it is that I have to say." 

As if on cue, Sophia's face screwed up and her eyes shimmered with tears. He wondered whether she was truly remorseful, or if this was all for show. There was no way to tell, and in the end, it didn't really matter. "Oh, Francis, don't be cruel," she said.

"I do not mean to be cruel, Sophia," he said. "I only mean to speak the truth - to speak plainly with you, as you have always done with me. What I have to say may seem harsh at first, but as you once inferred to me, it will spare you my resentment later." 

Something shifted subtly in her expression as she blinked, sending a single tear coursing down her cheek. "Will you at least come in and sit down?" she asked, her voice more steady now, indicating to Francis that his suspicions had been correct.

"I do not think that is wise," he answered. He needed to get this over and done with, before she had a chance to weaken his resolve. An image of James's face, weathered, care-worn, and sad flashed before his mind's eye, and his determination was instantly renewed in full. "I'm sorry, Sophia, but I must rescind my proposal."

Sophia opened her mouth to speak, but Francis held up a hand and continued. "This has very little to do with what occurred last night, so there is little point in trying to argue about that. The fact of the matter is that you and I were never meant to be. You knew that all along, and tried to tell me so, but I was too blind, or too stubborn to see it. I do not know why you changed your mind and agreed to marry me, but I _ do _ know that neither of us is fulfilled in the relationship we have, and for us to marry would be a grave mistake. I do not condemn you, Sophia. I am not angry with you. I do not hate you. But I _ do not love you _, and I do not believe that you love me, either."

"Francis, how can you say that?" Sophia asked. Her voice held more anger than sorrow. "After all we've come through together…"

Francis almost laughed. "And just what is it that you think we have been through together, Sophia? I spent 4 years trapped in a frozen purgatory, watching my men suffer and die, and completely helpless to stop it. _ That _was going through something. Whereas your idea of trial by fire is being forced to wear the same dress to two different dinner parties."

Anger flared in her eyes as she spat back, "At least _ I _ haven't been accused of _ eating _ my friends in order to live!"

Francis clenched his fists and set his jaw, determined not to lose his temper. When he spoke again, his voice was low and deadly calm. "I will not be baited by you, Sophia. But know this. Whatever we might have had together is dead and gone. It is no one's fault; it is simply a matter of fact. So I'm sorry to disappoint you, my darling Sophia, but I will not allow you to marry me for whatever fame and fortune my own trials have earned me. Do not insult me by thinking I am unable see the truth. It took me far too long to do so, but I see clearly enough now. It does not matter to me whether you marry another or remain as you are. Your life is your own to do with as you will, but you will no longer hold sway over _ mine _."

They stood there for several long moments, staring each other down. If there had been the faintest doubt in Francis's mind up to that point, it had been completely obliterated by now. The cold, harsh truth was far afield from the beautiful fantasy daydream Francis had so blindly clung to for so many years. 

Marianne appeared from the hallways and approached apologetically, proffering Francis's coat, hat, and muffler, and he took them from her gratefully. Having donned his outerwear, he tipped his hat to Sophia. "I hold no grudge against you, Sophia," he said. "I hope that you will extend the same courtesy to me. Perhaps, one day, we shall meet again as friends. Until then, I wish you well in whatever life you choose. Good day, Sophia. And good-bye." Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode out the door and into the street.

Once he was outside with the sun on his face, Francis laughed out loud. He hadn't even realized the weight he'd been carrying with him, but now he felt light and free after unburdening himself of that baggage. 

But then he remembered the events of that morning, and his exultation popped like a bubble, his heart sinking instantly. 

_ James… _

What would he do if James refused to see him? Could he possibly go on, now that he'd finally realized the depth of his feelings for the man? The thought of living out his days without James was unbearable. Unconsciously he slowed his pace as he contemplated these things. He mustn't lose heart. As he'd told himself that morning, he had to persevere, not only for his own sake but for James's as well. They _ belonged _together. Of course it was only natural that James would be reluctant to trust him after Francis had shown such a blatant disregard for his feelings, but over time, he would win him over. Surely he could… Couldn't he?

By the time he'd reached the Ross home, Francis had talked himself in circles more than once around. Just when he would convince himself that everything would be fine, he began to doubt once more. Then there was the Admiralty to consider. Now that he'd broken his engagement, he was under no obligation to provide financially for a wife. His memoirs were nearly completed, and he was confident that he could find a publisher who would distribute his work, and he could make due with the pay he'd collected for his time in the arctic, for a short while, at least, plus half pay while he remained off duty. Would it be enough, without a rise in his salary? He wasn't sure. Nothing was certain anymore, but if James was well and truly finished with him, then there was no reason to stay in England, anyway. He'd just as well take a new commission at once, as Rear Admiral. 

Francis trudged upstairs feeling just as heavy hearted as he had when he'd left James's flat. Perhaps worse, now that he'd loaded himself down with rumination. The initial high of being unfettered from his loveless engagement had now slumped back into the all too familiar depths of sadness and hopelessness. None of it mattered a fig if James would not have him.

He badly wanted a drink, but he'd made it a point not to bring any liquor to his rooms, knowing that his weakest moments came when he was alone. Instead, he went straight to the desk by the window and poured himself into his writing. He just needed to get through one more night. He would return to James's flat first thing in the morning, and he would continue going, every day, until James opened the door and let him inside.

***

######  _ James _

After sending Francis away, James had done his best to distract himself. He'd briefly considered going out, but the thought of setting foot outside his flat sent him flying into a panic, so he gave up on that notion. He tried reading, but every time he began, he found that he'd read halfway through the page without processing a single word, his thoughts constantly returning to Francis. Finally giving up on trying to distract himself, he returned to his bed where he curled up under the covers and drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. 

Try as he might, he could not stop thinking about the words Francis had said that morning. Every time he stirred, they would play through his mind:

_ Please just hear me out, and after I'm done, if you never want to see me again, I will leave you in peace, I swear. _

Was that really what James wanted? For Francis to leave him in peace? He felt his chest tighten and his heart begin to race. _ Bloody hell, not again… _ He pinched his eyes closed and drew his knees up to his chest, hugging himself and rocking slightly in an effort to self-soothe. He needed to breathe. Just breathe. Everything would be alright, if he could only _ breathe _…

James drew in a shuddering breath and held it for a count of five, then released. He did this several times, focusing on the feeling of his lungs filling with oxygen, and counting down the seconds before exhaling. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the tightness in his chest began to relax and his heart rate slowed. The episode had passed, but it had left him feeling weak and ashamed. How had he come to this? He felt hollowed out - a husk of the man he had once been, so proud. So eager to be seen. And now, he just wanted to hide away from the world forever.

With a weary sigh, James got out of bed and slowly made his way to the kitchen. The housekeeper had apparently come while he'd been sleeping, because there was a tray of food on the table and the fire had been tended. He had no appetite, but forced himself to pick up a hunk of cheese and a cluster of grapes. It would suffice.

Mechanically, he brought the food to his lips, chewed, and swallowed, staring out the window at the street below. He'd been foolish to go to the window after Francis left. When their eyes met, it had sent a jolt of electricity through his nervous system and left him feeling shaky and miserable. Perhaps he should have just let Francis in. What harm could it have done? 

But no. It could have done a great deal of harm, if he'd allowed himself to get too close, only to have Francis go running back to Sophia. Whatever he might say, the two were still engaged, and no amount of explanations or apologies would change that fact, nor would it change the desperation James felt as a result. No. He had to make a clean break. That was the only option. With a heavy heart, James dragged himself back to bed.

***

The next morning, James woke with a start. Through the haze of sleep, he registered the sound of someone knocking on his door. 

_ Good God, not again… _

He considered ignoring it. It had to be Francis. Who else would be knocking on his door at that hour of the morning? Surely, he would go away eventually, if James could just ignore him long enough. 

_Rap rap rap!_ _Rap rap rap rap!_

With a heavy sigh, James pulled himself out of bed and slipped on his dressing gown. He felt as though he was reliving the previous morning, and the thought made him cringe. How much longer could he go on this way? Why couldn't Francis just leave him to suffer alone?

He stood in front of the door quietly. His heart was racing a mile a minute, and no amount of controlled breathing could steady his nerves now as he waited, somehow unable to compel himself to open the door. Perhaps Francis had given up and left. Perhaps he was gone…

_ RAP RAP RAP RAP! _

James jumped, startled by the sound he should have been expecting. Francis was nothing if not persistent, he realized. Stubborn, some might say. _ He _ might say.

"Who's there?" he asked through the door, holding out a foolish hope that it might not be Francis after all. 

"James, please let me in," Francis said. "I know you're not pleased to see me, but I must speak with you."

James felt a lump forming in his throat. There was a desperation in Francis's voice that he had not been prepared for. He let out the breath he'd been holding and leaned forward until his forehead met the wood, his eyelids sliding closed as he pressed a palm flat against the door, fingers splayed. He imagined Francis on the other side of the door with his hand pressed against it to mirror his own, and the thought sent a shiver running over his skin.

It was all very well to talk himself up when he was alone - when he couldn't hear Francis's voice or smell his aftershave. Couldn't feel the energy that radiated from him, setting James's nerve endings tingling in anticipation. But now, here, knowing that the only thing standing between Francis and himself was a wooden door... He could feel his chest tightening - the beginning of a panic attack? Or possibly just a fresh round of tears... 

"There's nothing to be said, Francis." He struggled to keep his voice steady. More than anything, he wanted to fling open the door and pull Francis into his embrace - to kiss him and hold him as he had done that night, only this time never letting him go. But he could not give in to this desire. It was folly, and would only end in despair.

"There is _ everything _to be said, James. Please, for the love of God, let me in so we may speak face to face. Please… I'm begging you." 

It was more than he could bear. Slowly, he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Francis looked about as miserable as James felt. He entered the flat silently, looking stiff and awkward, and avoiding meeting James's gaze. 

James swallowed, willing himself to tear his feet from their position, frozen in front of the door. Finally, he managed to turn and walk toward the kitchen. "Tea?" he asked, trying to give the impression of casual composure. He needed to keep moving - to keep his distance. If he could keep his wits about him, he might be able to muddle through this conversation without breaking down in tears, and if he couldn't keep his spirit within from quaking like a leaf on an autumn breeze, he could at least _ appear _ to be in control of his emotions. "I'm afraid you've caught me straight out of bed. Not feeling terribly well this morning."

"No tea," Francis said. "I only want to talk."

"Very well." James said, throwing up his hands in mild annoyance. He turned back and stepped into the sitting area, gesturing for Francis to follow him. James sat in the armchair farthest from the others, as he had the last time Francis had come. He couldn't risk getting too close to him. He couldn't handle the temptation to touch him. It was too strong. It hurt too much.

Francis sat down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. Now that James was looking at him properly, he could see that Francis looked absolutely stricken. His eyes were red, and there were dark rings beneath them. His hair was uncombed and his clothing looked wrinkled, as if he'd slept in the outfit and then come straight here without changing. James could tell that he was working up to something, but he seemed to be having difficulty finding the words. He blinked several times, clearing his throat, making eye contact only sporadically.

"Well?" James asked, feeling slightly bolstered by Francis's obvious distress. All his insecurity and hurt, he channeled into the one thing he was comfortable hiding behind: sarcasm. "What is it that you wanted to tell me? Have you established the destination of your honeymoon? Or have you already eloped, and come to give me the good news in person?"

Francis gaped at him with something bordering on shock, and James was suddenly unsure of himself. His own expression softened and he wrestled with his treacherous heart, struggling not to allow hope to bubble up inside him. He simply could not handle another disappointment. Not with Francis. Not now.

"I… wanted to offer you my apologies, James," Francis said, ignoring James's taunts about Sophia. "I have treated you badly… very badly, indeed, and I want you to know how sorry I am."

James turned his hands palm-up, questioningly. "Very well, you are forgiven," he said. "I understand your motives, for the most part. And anyway, it doesn't matter anymore, since I'll be leaving England as soon as I can arrange my situation abroad. You needn't worry about my feelings anymore."

Francis's mouth fell open. "But… Where will you go?" he asked, and James was gratified by the surprise in his voice.

"Does it matter?" James retorted. "I cannot stay here any longer, Francis. I will not stand by and watch you marry that woman. I won't do it. I can't." He blinked rapidly, an attempt to keep at bay the tears that threatened to cloud his vision. "I cannot ask you not to marry her, but I'll be damned before I stand by and watch it happen. So I'm leaving. I made up my mind just last night, in fact."

Francis shook his head, apparently at a complete loss for words. Then, without warning, he sprang up from his chair and flung himself to his knees at James's feet. 

"James, please do not do this," he said, wringing his hands. "I beg of you to reconsider. Don't leave me alone!"

James recoiled slightly in surprise. "You won't be alone, Francis. You'll have your precious Sophia here. What could you possibly need me for?"

Francis shook his head. "No, James. I will not be marrying Sophia."

James felt the room tip as these words took root in his mind. If this was true, it changed everything. He drew in a breath, but couldn't seem to get enough oxygen into his lungs. There was no fighting his stubborn heart now. Hearing these words, it leapt into his throat, throbbing insistently, filling to the brim with life-giving hope, despite the voice in the back of his mind, telling him that such hope could not be trusted. 

"What… do you mean?" he asked, his voice breaking. 

Francis reached for James's hands, and he allowed it, relishing the feeling of those rough, calloused fingers holding them tightly. Oh, how he'd missed that touch. He realized now that Francis's hands were trembling, and he felt a little more of his defenses crumble. 

"I mean just what I say, James. I've broken the engagement. There will be no wedding."

James sucked in a breath, making a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. He felt like his entire body was about to shatter like an overturned jigsaw puzzle, and he clutched Francis's hands to anchor himself. "But… _ why _?"

Francis shook his head sadly. "Oh, James, surely you must know that I have been haunted by the memory of what passed between us. I've pined for you like a lovesick schoolboy, but I was so stubborn… I didn't want to admit to myself that everything I _ thought _I'd ever wanted was a lie. I thought, if I pressed forward, I could move on - that if I poured all my heart and soul into the engagement, then my feelings for Sophia would be rekindled. I thought that if I acted the part long enough, I could make it become reality. I thought… I thought I could forget. But as it turns out, you are not a man easily forgotten."

James huffed a laugh, the sentiment resonating loudly within him.

"I've been a fool, James," he said. "I've been a bloody fool, and I'm so very sorry for it. I've been chasing after what I thought I wanted, when all the while, what I truly _ needed _was right in front of me." He gave James's hands a significant squeeze. "It took some tough love from our Thomas Blanky to make me pull my head out of my arse long enough to see reason."

James tried to make sense of all of this, but his mind was reeling and his throat felt tight with emotion. "I want to believe you, Francis. God only knows how much I want to believe you. But… I don't know how to trust that this is real. How can I be certain that she won't woo you back to her again?"

Francis dropped his gaze, looking ashamed and contrite. When he turned his face up to meet James's gaze once more, his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I do not deserve your trust, James. I know I've given you precious little reason to offer it. But I can tell you with all assurance that I am finished with Sophia, and she with me."

James shook his head. "I don't understand, Francis. What has happened to cause this change of heart? I had thought you felt bound by honor to… to… " He let the sentence trail off, unable to say the words.

"Friday night, I called on Sophia, intending to have a frank conversation with her. Her affections had cooled toward me of late, and though I am ashamed to confess it, I half hoped that she would ask to be released from our engagement. But when I arrived, I found her..._ entertaining _another man. It was immediately after this encounter that I met you in the street. I was in shock. And you were… not alone. I don't blame you, James. I don't blame you at all." 

"Nothing happened, Francis," James was quick to clarify, compassion and regret washing over him. "It was foolish of me to even contemplate… Oh, Francis, I'm so sorry about Sophia."

Francis shook his head with a sad smile. "It's all right," he reassured. "And it is I who am sorry, James. I _ never _ intended to hurt you. If you believe nothing else, I pray you believe this. I had many reasons to break my engagement, but the only one that _ truly _ matters is this: I do not love Sophia. I thought I did, but I see now that I was confused. After all, how _ could _ I love her, when my heart, body, and soul belong to _ you _?"

Francis knelt before James, nestled between his knees, tears falling from his eyes. He lifted James's hands and pressed them to his lips, kissing each knuckle, one at a time, his tears wetting James's hands and causing his heart to swell with each press of lips. It did not seem real - not _ possible _that this should be happening. 

"What of the sodomy laws?" James asked, hating himself for giving Francis the slightest excuse to turn back now. But he had to know. He had to be sure. 

"Fuck the sodomy laws," Francis replied, nuzzling into James's now-open palms. James huffed a choked laugh, sniffling as tears slid down his cheeks, gathering in the creases of his face. The hope inside him had spilled over, filling his chest with light and warmth, and he no longer had the strength, nor the will, to fight it. 

"Are you certain, Francis?" James asked him, hoping and praying with every shred of his being that the answer would be yes. "Are you absolutely certain? I cannot lose you again. It would be the death of me."

Francis looked up into his eyes with an earnestness that stole James's breath away. "I've never been more certain of anything in my entire life," Francis said, and James knew that he was speaking the truth. "I want to live out the rest of my days with you, and no one else."

"Then get up off the floor, Francis," he said through laughter and tears. "I would have your lips against mine, and not merely on my hands." He hoisted Francis up and pulled him into his lap, wrapping his arms around him and holding him so tightly that he almost feared he would injure him, though Francis made no complaint. 

Francis leaned into him and their lips met, tentatively at first, almost shyly, as they each tested the waters, slowly lowering their defenses, opening themselves up to one another all over again. James felt that his heart would burst with joy as the kiss deepened, reaching a level of fervency that made him lightheaded. 

In a matter of minutes, James had gone from the firm conviction that he would never again feel the touch of Francis's hands to a hunger so intense it took his breath away. Now that the wall around his heart had been torn down, all that was left was a raw, visceral _ need _ to connect. James felt his blood rush from his head to his groin, lighting a fire in his belly that threatened to consume him entirely. He was sure that Francis shared his longing - could feel it in the urgency of his kiss as his lips parted, beckoning James's tongue inside, to which he happily acquiesced. He groaned into Francis's mouth, shifting in his seat. 

Slowly, without breaking the kiss, James slid from the chair to the floor with his legs crossed so that Francis could sit in his lap, straddling him. Francis issued a soft whining sound, but made no further protest to this relocation, his arms wrapping around James's shoulders and clinging to him desperately. James gripped Francis by the hips, pulling his pelvis close against his own. He inhaled sharply when he felt the evidence of Francis's arousal, and shifted his hips in a vain attempt to gain friction. Francis seemed to understand his need and canted his own hips, grinding against James, who pulled away from the kiss to throw his head back in pleasure. The next moment, he felt Francis's lips on his throat, kissing, licking, and nipping up his jawline, nibbling at his earlobe. He let out a luxurious moan and arched his back, desperate for more. 

"Francis…" he gasped, his own hands traveling up and down Francis's sides, debating his next move. He wanted to feel the other man's skin against his own again. Wanted to feel the full weight and bulk of him in his lap, moving against him. He was startled by the sensation of a hand against his bare chest. Francis had pushed aside his dressing gown and was running his hands over James's chest. "Mhm...yes…” he groaned, as Francis's fingertips strayed across one of his nipples, strumming it until it grew hard. And then his hands were moving lower, fingertips tickling his stomach, lower still, palming James's erection through the thin fabric of his sleep pants, pressing the heel of his palm against it and rubbing slowly. He sucked in a breath, but nodded vigorously when he felt Francis pause. "Keep going. Please, Francis…" he whispered. 

Francis's hand slipped inside James's pants, his fingers curling around his erection and coaxing a full body shudder from him. "Oh, God…" James whimpered. He felt ready to explode already, but tried to control himself as best he could. His own hands moved to Francis's waist, fumbling with his pants until he found the buttons holding the fabric closed. He could feel Francis tremble when his fingers brushed against his erection, which seemed to be every bit as solid and insistent as James's own. He reached inside and cradled the throbbing member gently in his hand, caressing it, and was rewarded by a soft keening sound from Francis's lips, sending a jolt of pure adrenaline through his bloodstream and spurring him on to grip him more tightly and begin stroking in earnest.

The two of them brought each other to climax in this way. It was graceless and urgent, each of them groaning and gasping as they clung to one another, hands pumping and bodies trembling, faster and faster, until the pressure reached its bursting point and the very air around them exploded in a million tiny explosions, and there was nothing left in the world except the two of them and this moment they inhabited as one. 

After it was over, they remained seated on the floor, James leaning back against the chair and Francis slumped against his chest. They clung to one another as their heartbeats slowed and their bodies relaxed. James felt as if he was floating on a cloud, completely weightless in bliss. He nuzzled against Francis's neck, kissing and nibbling at the tender skin behind his ear. 

"I love you, Francis," he whispered, once he'd caught his breath. 

"And I love you, James," Francis said. "More than I knew it was possible to love."

"Stay with me. Be with me. Never leave me again," James said, pulling back to look into Francis's pale blue eyes. Nothing else mattered now. Nothing ever would, except this beautiful thing they had discovered together. 

"I am yours, James," Francis replied. "For always. But we shall need to be cautious. No one may ever know." 

James smiled. "What if I were to tell you that there was a way for us to be together, and not have to live in constant fear of discovery?"

Francis frowned. "But how can that be, James? The law is very plain."

James nodded. "That's true enough. And you are right in saying that we must be cautious. But if you truly wish to be with me - and I pray that you do…" He paused.

"What is it, James? Speak plainly. Whatever you ask of me, I will gladly do. Only say the words, and I will obey your command."

"In that case, there is something I need to show you…" James said with a mischievous grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you for your patience in bearing with me! I will be adjusting the last chapter (epilogue) and fleshing it out a bit more, so stay tuned for that. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed the additions I've made to this chapter. As always, I love to hear from you, so leave me a comment! <3


	23. Epilogue

#  **Epilogue**

_ Francis - 6 Months Later _

Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier stirred at a sound just outside his realm of consciousness. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, slowly opened, and he took in his surroundings: the narrow berth, the dark wood paneled walls, the creek of wood cutting through water. He was back on board HMS Terror. 

No, Terror was gone. He was on a different ship. 

The sound that had wakened him repeated itself, bringing him fully to his senses. He scooted to the edge of the mattress and carefully climbed down from his perch on the top bunk. No sooner had his feet touched the floor than he was climbing into the lower berth, slipping beneath the covers and pressing himself against the man who lay there, moaning softly in his sleep. 

"Sshhh... James, it's alright," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of James's neck. He slipped an arm around James's waist, half in comfort, but half to keep himself from falling off the edge of the bed, since the mattress was barely wide enough to accommodate the two of them. If either had been an ounce heavier, it would never have worked. "You're safe now, James," he whispered, breathing in the scent of James's hair and skin, his hand running in gentle circles over James's clenched stomach. 

"Fran...Francis…" James muttered groggily, shifting slightly. Francis couldn't see his face to tell whether his eyes had opened, but he felt the soft touch of James's hand on his own, lacing their fingers together and holding it tightly to himself. 

"It's alright, James," Francis whispered again. "I'm here." 

The two of them had been fortunate to have reserved a first class 2-berth stateroom for their voyage, allowing the two of them to bunk together without raising any unpleasant questions amongst their fellow British passengers. Francis had been concerned about James's night terrors, but during the three weeks they'd been at sea, this had been only the second time that James had awakened in the night. 

Even having a room to themselves, James and Francis needed to be careful. The walls were very thin, and the slightest sound would carry easily. So they would climb into their own separate beds each night, both longing to be curled up in each other's arms, but knowing that there simply wasn't room, nor privacy enough to permit them the intimate moments they so craved. They did their best to suppress their fleshly appetites, but despite their best efforts, there had been occasions when the two still wound up together in James's bunk, struggling to remain silent as they'd feverishly given vent to the pressure that had been building with each night - each glance - each time they had needed to disrobe in front of the other, due to the tight space - each brush of skin - each heavy sigh. 

These reckless forays were exhilarating in their own right, and always ended with James collapsing on top of Francis while they both panted and gasped for breath, their naked bodies glistening with sweat by the light of the moon through their tiny porthole. 

This night, however, Francis ignored the twinge of arousal he felt in his core, knowing that they both needed sleep, and that James would be in no mood for lovemaking immediately after one of his awful dreams. "I've got you, James," he whispered again. "Go back to sleep. I've got you." 

It wasn't long before James's grip on his hand loosened, and it finally slipped away as his breath grew deep and steady again. Francis didn't want to get up - didn't want to leave James's side - but he knew he'd never get to sleep with his rear hanging off the mattress as it was. So, he very carefully disentangled his arm from James's and slid backward off the bed, then climbed up to his own bunk and went to sleep.

The following morning, Francis woke before James, as he nearly always did. He quietly slipped into his clothes and crept out of their room, pulling the door gently closed behind him with a soft click. 

"Ah, Captain Crozier!" came a booming voice as Francis stepped onto the deck. It was Donavan, the captain of the ship. 

"You needn't call me Captain," Francis said, giving him a smile in greeting. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd smiled more than these past several months. "I'm retired, remember? I dare say the Admiralty was all too pleased to see the back of me, too."

"Nonsense!" said Donavan, waving these remarks off as a joke, which, to Crozier, they were not. "Once a sea captain, always a sea captain. That's what I say!" 

Francis had to concede to this logic and gave him a shrug. "I suppose, if you put it that way…"

"We're in sight of land," Donavan said, changing the subject. "We'll be in port within the hour. Look there." He pointed out over the bow of the ship, and Francis saw it immediately. It was the most beautiful sight, and he felt his heart leap. Even with the evidence directly before him, Francis could barely believe it. Had they really been at sea that long? It didn't seem possible. 

"We've been traveling with a favorable wind, and we've made excellent time," explained Donavan, as if reading Crozier's thoughts. "We'll be arriving a full day ahead of schedule. 

Even at this, Francis was surprised. He'd lost track of the days somewhere along the line. The passage of time didn't seem to matter as much to him lately, since he'd tendered his resignation to the Admiralty, flatly declining the promotion offered to him. He had taken great pleasure in the looks of dismay on the faces of every member of the Admiralty Board present. To reject such a glamorous promotion was simply not done!

In the end, the decision had been a simple one for Francis. With his memoirs completed and set to be published later that year, along with the new information James had shared with him that day, they would get by comfortably enough. And whatever material luxuries they were denied would be compensated tenfold by the warmth of one another's embrace and the intimate companionship of their kindred souls. 

"This is fantastic news!" Francis replied. "I must go and tell Fitzjames at once." Without a moment's hesitation, he hurried below deck and back to their room.

"James? James, wake up." 

James stretched languidly, yawning as he rolled over. "Good morning, Francis," he said, offering a sleepy smile. "What time is it?"

"Nevermind about the time, James. We're approaching harbor. Get dressed and come and see."

He left James to dress in private and made his way back on deck to wait, the land growing larger with each passing moment. He stood at the bow of the ship with the sun on his face and the warm, salty breeze sweeping his hair back from his face when he felt James's presence as he stepped up beside him, their hands briefly grazing as they leaned on the railing. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Francis asked.

"Breathtaking," James replied, his hand resting next to Francis's so that they just barely touched.

Before them lay a verdant, mountainous land mass whose coastline opened up like an enormous maw, into Guanabara Bay - a tranquil, kidney-shaped harbor of the most vibrant blue-green water Francis had ever seen. Beyond it, the sloping landscape was dotted with red-tiled whitewashed buildings, shadowed by tropical wooded mountains further off. From this distance, he could barely make out the shapes of palm trees and rock formations along the coast, and the tiny ant-like movement of people going about their daily lives in the city of Rio DeJaneiro. 

"Where is the fazenda, James?" Francis asked, turning to gaze at his companion.

"It's just beyond the city, in those hills. About… there, I think." James squinted against the sun as he pointed to an area just southwest of the city. 

Francis had tried to imagine it so many times, since James had shown him the legal documents which set forth the details of James's inheritance from a distant relation of his natural mother. It had all seemed like a dream to him, and he was quite sure it felt that way to James as well. James had never even known his mother's family - never even known their identities! But somehow, apparently, they had managed to keep track of him throughout his childhood and into his naval career. 

He knew that James had mixed feelings on the matter. Even Francis wondered why they had never reached out to him before, when there was still time for them to get to know one another. But whatever their reasons, this final gift had been their salvation. Francis had not even needed time to consider the proposition, when James explained to him that he had inherited a small coffee plantation in the state of Rio DeJaneiro. Since sodomy had been legalized in Brazil in 1830, they would be free to live their lives as they saw fit, without fear of punishment or imprisonment. 

Of course, Francis knew that they would face discrimination in various other forms, but none of that mattered to him. He was used to being looked down upon, and being with James was the one thing in his life that would be worth every last sneer and malicious whisper. Indeed, he felt that he could endure nearly anything, as long as he could return home to James at the end of the day. 

Francis turned to James with a contented smile. "What a story this will make, eh, James?"

James arched a brow, but laughed. "I suppose you're right, Francis. I only hope you won't tire of hearing it."

"No, James. This is one story of which I will  _ never  _ tire."

James grinned, that old sparkle once again dancing in his dark eyes. "Dangerous words from a man who threatened to put his dinner into his ears to block out my dulcet tones, once upon a time."

Francis laughed, nudging James's hip with his own. "You know very well that was a long time ago. Things are... _ different _ , now." 

James nodded, turning his gaze back out toward their soon-to-be new home. "I shall be eternally grateful for that, Francis," he said wistfully.

Glancing around to ensure that they were alone, Francis slid his hand over top of James's and gave it a gentle squeeze. "As shall I, James," he said softly. "But now, we'd best return to our room and prepare to disembark. We don't want to be late to our new adventure."

James turned his hand over and gave Francis's hand a squeeze before releasing it. "An adventure of a lifetime," he whispered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you for bearing with me here, and I do apologize for the delay. With the holidays rapidly approaching, I've been swamped. I hope you will enjoy this last installment. I've added just a little bit to fill out the narrative. I will be adding one more chapter at some point, with thanks and acknowledgements, as well as links to some fan art and other interesting tidbits. In the meantime, I've been contemplating a short Christmas one-shot for our boys, so check back for that if you're interested! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You know the drill - I love feedback, so leave me your comments if you are so inclined!   
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all! xo


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